


For Need of Two Credits

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angelo's Restaurant, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Sherlock, Discussion of light D/s, Discussion of safewords, First Time, Happy Ending, I will wrestle it back in Chapter 6, John 1 Mycroft 0, John Finds Out, John can hold his own, John is Impulsive, M/M, Medical student John, Misunderstandings, Mycroft's Meddling, Not Underage, Photography, Questionable Ethics Teacher/Student, Sexual Tension, Sherlock has a secret, Sherlock is a Brat, The Characters have Hijacked the Plot in Chapter 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-07 10:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8798230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: John is close to finishing med school when he is informed that he must take an elective in order to graduate on time.  His advisor suggests a novel opportunity working with a professor in a blended forensic art class where John can still fulfill his official obligations while getting these much needed credits.  The professor?  Dr. WSS Holmes, of course.'Make contact, John,' his advisor says.  'You might actually enjoy it.'





	1. The Problem:  No Way Out But Through

John leans in toward the man on the other side of the desk, who had taken on an acceptably horrified blush, an apologetic hue of red.  John is unable to stop the snarling tone through tight lips. “ _What do you mean I need two more credits_?”  Tom Whitmore, his advisor, looks unhappy, concerned, and more than a little worried.  It is understandable given the degree of anger in the words John forces out from between his very clenched teeth, and his aggravated demeanor - chest out, shoulders tight, offensive posture.

John has been working on anger management since he was ten and had hauled off and broken his friend's nose for some reason he now can't remember.  It crops up now and again and has proved useful on the rugby pitch.  It was less useful when facing someone who had so much control over upcoming events, and John definitely could not afford to lose control now.  The rage he feels now completely dwarfs all recent enraged memory, and he tries to take a calming breath.

“John, I’m really sorry, you kind of ... slipped through the cracks.  From when you started the program until now, the regs changed, and because, I mean, let's face it, you’ve been at this a while…”

John suppresses the urge to reach out and throttle him.  With his medical training almost completed - though with today's news perhaps he is not as close as he thinks - he knows he could certainly injure, perhaps mortally.  This bump in the road, he thinks, is completely yet another injustice.  As if it isn’t bad enough paying his own way, managing his own uni bill and education expenses while bloody working shift work, now it is coming back to bite him in the arse.

"... and when you took that semester off, something about your sister I believe, which was completely understandable..."  Tom's hands are up in an almost defensive posture when he sees John's murderous expression.

John's teeth grit together so hard his jaw hurts and he recalls unhelpfully that the inferior alveolar nerve feeds into the trigeminal nerve of the face, and right now both are overstimulated pain receptors, and he forces his face to unclench.  Schedule-wise, Tom is right, as he'd taken a semester off early in the program for family obligations. Harry's last rehab stint had sidelined him for a bit as she detoxed and then couldn't be left alone once she'd been released.  He'd kept her accountable as she'd gotten back on her feet.  It had been rough going, but worth it, he reminds himself now that she was doing well.  And it was understandable, they'd told him then, he'd needed to briefly take a break from the demand of that surgical rotation.  The semester apparently had been costly in more ways than simply helping her out.

“… so we didn’t realise it right away.  Until a few days ago when I set about doing your degree audit.”  He opens the file in front of him, takes the top three sheets, flips through them.   “I filed appeals all the way up, but the Dean of Students, Director of the Program, and President of the University all turned it down.”  John can see the letterhead, reading upside down that indeed, all three offices had chimed in to decline.  He hands them to John.  “I’ll work with you, I may have already found a very workable option, something that would fulfill requirements for the university, and I can sign off on, if you're agreeable.  We will just need you to initiate a few things.  It’s only two credits..." his voice trails off, and John readily sees that he does indeed hate being the bearer of this bad news, and he adds, "I argued like crazy to get this waived, John.” 

“I have no other option?”  John asks one last time, already knowing his fate has been sealed.  He would be taking his final semester as a chief surgical resident along with a _bloody elective_ class in order to graduate on time with his mates, to get on with his life, to finally be able to help, to heal, to fix.  "Tom, for God's sake."  His fingers run through his blond hair, and he doesn't care that he has probably left it sticking up at odd angles.  Perhaps, he muses distractedly, looking more stressed might earn him some compassion.

“Not if you want to finish up at the end of this coming semester and graduate with your class.”  He’s been John’s advisor for well over a year, having taken over for the last one who’d retired, and did feel terribly, knowing how hard John had worked on his own and the hardships he'd needed to overcome, the family, financial, and other struggles.  He really had tried to do this student a favour.  "You're almost there, John.  Don't let this ruin a really ... _monumental effort_ on your part."

“I just want to be done, move on.  This has been endless,” he hears the faint whining in his own voice, silences it just barely.  “Okay then, talk to me.  I obviously have no option," he says without trying to hide the anger.  "What classes are open that might work?”  he pinches the bridge of his nose again, and each time he does that particular movement, it reminds him of his father, now passed on.  “And this alternative option, what is that all about?”

"I'll explain it all, but first, you could register for ... " he mentions a few of the traditional classes - an upper level history, an econ class, a poly-sci elective - that John of course had already known about.

Quickly, John holds up a hand.  "Surgical residency requires long hours on random days.  Those, I'm sure, have a set schedule - absolutely not an option for me."  He considered how satisfying it might be to bail on the remainder of his education and simply work at the local coffee shop, or at Tesco, or even something mindless like handling tolls.  But he knows better, and he can both sense and feel the motivation, the grit, the determination that will ultimately, he knows, carry him through the rest of this programme, even if it does mean taking a bloody ridiculous elective class so late in the game.  "Talk to me, please, Tom.  I need something that I can make work."

“Well, one of the art profs has proposed a blended class for one student per semester, where someone such as yourself should be able to sit in on what classes he can manage to, along with the rest of their schedule.  The class is," and Tom consults the paper to get the title exactly right, 'Advanced Forensic Art'.  It would be to attend some classes, perhaps assist with some class preparation, help out with research or study projects outside of the university - this prof, I believe, in particular has other municipal commitments or some such -  which should work out all right for you, and shouldn't preclude your chief resident obligations and all.  Then you would design your own schedule and activities with the prof while earning full credit for the class that you need, add some stuff on the side as a TA of sorts.  Prof's part time, not tenured, I'm not even sure he has an office.  I hear he's kind of a rogue, a bit temperamental.  But I already made contact with him, he knows about you, gave your file the preliminary approval."  Tom does not elaborate, but John gets the feeling that he is withholding some information. "He has final say on whether he thinks he can work with you, and he did turn down a few students already for some reason.  This might be the first time it has all come together, actually, and I'm sorry I don't have more information than that right now.  But it should be worth looking into, and he has agreed to be flexible.  And who knows, you might actually enjoy it, learn something.”  Tom hands John a business card.  “He’s expecting an intro email from you, will want to meet you prior to next week when classes open."

John grinds his teeth as he pictures the finish of his med school career as a sharply inclining mountain in front of him, and feels a burst of pent-up energy within.  He wishes he was a runner, or a boxer, wanting to rid himself of this angry, simmering, deep-rooted frustration.  Another bad hand dealt him, another unexpected delay and undeserved hardship.  Easing up on his jaw, he breathes deep yet again.  Nothing to be done about it other than comply, he knows.  Grabbing the card hard in one hand, he ponders the obligatory email, the shift at the hospital later that day, the rest of his responsibilities, the additional orchestrations he is now going to have to manage.  Glancing down, he reads the few lines of print on the card that Tom handed him:

 

**_WSS Holmes, PhD_ **

**_Consulting Detective_ **

**_agtd@agtd.co.uk_**

 

Rising, John pockets the card, resolutely sighing.  His thoughts now, he realises, have to shift from the unfairness of it and he has to move on and just bloody do it.  Besides, he assures himself, being TA of a blended art program, particularly when he would be blazing the trail in a brand new partnership, will be fine and very much a means to an end.  The bar, hopefully, for this pilot programme, should not as yet be set unreachably high.  He is almost there, almost done, almost a full-scale physician.  He settles himself, finding that this should actually be quite manageable.  With the topic of forensic art and a prof who wasn't part of the tenured faculty, he thinks,  _how difficult can it possibly be?_

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, John. What did you just agree to do?
> 
> ++
> 
> Oh boy, this should be so much fun! Ideas and suggestions, if you have any, can perhaps be incorporated, so please let me know if epiphany strikes.
> 
> The website mentioned is completely fictitious.


	2. Shocking Development

_Dr. Holmes_

_My advisor Tom Whitmore instructed me to make contact, introduce myself.  I am in my final semester and finishing my rotation as chief surgical resident, and, as you are already aware, looking to join your ART 325 to fulfill my 2 credit deficit.  Tom thinks that my enrolling in your class and blending the class with whatever TA duties you have in mind should fulfill my credit requirement and be of some assistance to you with class plus whatever outside projects (independent studies) he had mentioned.  Thanks in advance, and I look forward to working with you._

_John Watson_

He ends with his mobile number and a recopying of his email address.  *Message Sent*

++

The response is curt and unsigned in his inbox, from the prof's university email address.  

_7 pm, Old Main Hall lobby, first floor, tomorrow night to discuss your schedule for Forensic Art._

++

_Dr. Holmes_

_I am unable to attend the meeting you set up.  I am on duty at the hospital until eight that night, possibly longer if something demands immediate surgical intervention. Please offer me a few other options, and I will do my best to meet you at our earliest convenience._

_John_

++

_From:          Dr. Holmes_

_To:             [undisclosed recipients]_

_Subject:     Advanced Forensic Art 325_

_Greetings Students:_

_Welcome._

_While this is a traditional class with expected class nights, there is also a change for your consideration._ _The department has agreed, albeit reluctantly, to permit this select class of adults to fulfill hours on an as needed basis, allowing the class to participate in extracurricular activities for credit, similar to a lab experience or practicum.  As professor, I will be offering several workshops and hands-on opportunities periodically during the semester as the class progresses.  That said, I look forward to seeing you all at the first week's class next Thursday night, and I will more fully explicate this novel process._

_Provided you are willing to work hard, stretch yourself beyond what you think yourselves capable of, and maintain an open mind, you will find this class challenging yet enjoyable and educational.  I am hopeful that I can take a classroom of impressionable minds and teach them to think.  At the completion of the course, I assure you that you will never look at art nor forensic investigation the same._

_S. Holmes, PhD, Academic Adjunct Interim Faculty_

++

Later that evening, John reads the email again, more thoroughly, and as he is looking over his calendar, he realises that the first class falls in the middle of his seven day stretch on in the surgical theatre at the hospital.  He sends a quick note to Dr. Holmes advising that he will be unfortunately unable to attend the first class of the term, citing the reason, and that he will of course, make up or otherwise reschedule the hours.  He hopes Dr. Holmes will be as accommodating as his advisor had intimated when they idea had first been broached.  He ends the email, "I hope to hear from you soon to discuss this as well as how my student/TA role will meet requirements and whatever else you will be needing this semester."

There is a response in his inbox the next day from his professor, and after reading it John begins to question the wisdom of this idea, as the email is not an auspicious beginning.  The tone of the email is caustic and already snippy and notes that students today in general are spoiled, placated, coddled, and demanding special exceptions about classes, assignments, workload, and grades.  It is a bit of a rambling rant that makes John think this prof is all up his business about the request for what John knows is a _very valid excused absence_ on that day, and the email ends with, “Perhaps you should reconsider your motivation overall if you are unwilling to make other arrangements.”

John doesn’t usually send off quickly reactive emails, but his schedule has been chaotic all day with demands on him seemingly unattainable, and he is annoyed and  _done_.  Through, finished, had enough, _ta_ , and bloody ready to explode.  He skips the greeting, goes right for the jugular (and he's a bloody _surgeon, almost_ , and certainly capable of death by his own hand), hits 'reply' and launches right in to a somewhat emotional defence.  “I am highly motivated, and I thought that was the point of my taking this class, this blended class, in the first place. My grades are top-notch, and I have taken more than a full load each semester I've been enrolled.  I was told you had reviewed my transcript, so had you been paying any attention all along, you should have seen my academic file, and you would already know that. If I cannot make other arrangements and you refuse to work with me to find other schedule alternatives, I will be forced to withdraw from this course before we even get started ...” and he dashes a few additional sentences regarding contact information.  He signs his name, then adds an extremely unprofessional postscript that ordinarily he never would have done, _ever,_ but he is now fully engaged and _fired up._ The words are flowing out in creative anger, an outlet for frustration and satisfying in their pointedness.  “I find myself wondering how my advisor got the impression that you were going to be flexible or even bloody reasonable.  Thus far, I am not only vastly disappointed but globally unimpressed."

Enter. Sending. (spinning hourglass). John gasps as he reconsiders, a sinking feeling of dismay -  _dear lord, I should have waited, what did I just do?_ , impulsivity and anger management be damned!  He taps keys:  Backspace, backspace, _backspace, undo, recall message_.  Sigh.  Too late, all post-send keystrokes are ineffective.  "Message delivered."  There is immediate email regret.  John puts his head in his hands.  There is a churning in his stomach as he realises what he has just very likely, almost certainly, set in motion.  He will graduate next semester, then, and he has just assured it with his hastily delivered spiel.

The syllabus is feeling hot in his hands, and he glances again at the weekly topics that perhaps, could have been his - basic forensic art roles, facial topography, muscle tone and aging, gender differences in decomposure processes, crime scene analysis, and he smiles wistfully at what he might have had, thinking that he might now miss out on something riveting.  While he is only doing it because it is required, in some ways, Forensic Art does actually appeal to him, too.  Water under the bridge, spilt milk, and other cliches, he smiles self deprecatingly, humbled.  The syllabus did boast limited homework, interesting topics, freedom to explore current forensic cases - things very different from any other class.   _Oh well._ He steels himself to have to go to Tom again for another option, wishing his university offered online class options like other universities.  He fights down the annoyance even as he wishes he'd waited on the email, but consoles himself that if the prof was already being difficult, maybe it was for the best.  So much for promises of flexible attendance.  

The next email he expects from his professor will be the one that drops him from the roster and probably informs him that he has been reported to some university administrator for rudeness or insubordination or unprofessionalism, but it doesn't come before John has to attend to the rest of his responsibilities.  It will arrive, he knows, and at that point in time, he will have to deal with it.

++

John finds the response very early the next morning, when, unable to stay asleep, he powers up his mobile to check email.  The time stamp is two am.

_Mr. Watson,_

_My, my.  Disappointed and unimpressed, are you?_

_I am not in the habit of 'unimpressing' anyone, but I find some who work with me outside of academia would concur with your 'disappointed' assessment.  We will discuss the class details and your alternatives sometime this upcoming week, provided you are available.  I will follow up by text message later today or tomorrow._

_Holmes_

Something about the email, the signature, the quick one-eighty that had been done, John thinks, is not necessarily a good omen.  Something is _up_.

++

The text arrives after lunch as he is preparing for a procedure he will be performing the following day in the surgical suite.   **I find myself free this evening to discuss semester scheduling.  You?  SH**

He considers postponing, but knows that delaying the meeting gains him nothing.   **Tonight is fine.  I assume somewhere on campus, fine arts building?  Old Main hall lobby?**

**221b Baker Street.  5:00 pm.  SH**

**Fine.  Your office on campus?**

**My flat.  SH**

**All right.**

**Don't be late. SH**

Whatever, John thinks, reminding himself that he desperately needs this to work out, whether it was an advisable meeting location or not.  He thinks about suggesting a coffee shoppe, opts not to make any more suggestions or open himself to being labeled as anything less than very accommodating after the already rough beginning they'd had. **Want me to bring anything?**

**Your calendar should suffice, obviously. SH**

**++**

John studies until his mind is mushy, preparing for the morning's surgery - a complicated nerve dissection of an atypical schwanoma.  He spends extra time perusing the latest in the technique, pathophysiology, and research literature.  As a result, he is rushing to get to the designated address on time.  He finds professor Holmes' door easily, right at five o'clock.

A simple knock, the throwing open of the door, and John finds himself drawn into the whirlwind of one very tall, gangly, approaching hyperactive man.  "There is something wrong with the logic, the facts.  Nothing makes sense!   _Nothing_!!"  John finds a folder of papers thrown at him, and he is rendered speechless as who he assumes must be Dr. Holmes raves about something or the other.  Before John can even interject a word in, the high-energy man gestures heavenward as if epiphany has struck him.

John finds a dense object thrust at him, along with the admonition spoken intensely, "Hold this."  A composite rock, heavy, synthetic, sparkling in the light and requires both hands to hold it.  "Grab on tight, don't let go, don't let me take it from you."  The order is both imperative and threatening.

"What --" John begins.

And with that, Dr. Holmes wraps his long fingers around the rock, pulls, twists, and otherwise wrings it while John is holding it, trying to get it from him.  Several times, it almost slips out of John's hands, while he thinks oddly of how he used to play keepaway with Harry as a child.  They would wrestle for various toys - his, hers, sometimes neither of them knew whose - until his mother would separate them.  He is reminded of the school wrestling team, of collegial tussles and the competition of not losing under any circumstance.  His competitive drive activates, and he slides his hands to more fully ensure it won't be taken, to more fully hang on.

He thinks about going on the offensive, to wrest the item from Dr. Holmes grip, and looks up at him to assess the likelihood of a positive response.  The eyes that are staring at him are unusually pale, insightful, and warmer - engaged, even _welcoming -_ than he's expecting.  John is vaguely aware of long eyelashes, arched brows, and an overall long face with incredibly prominent cheekbones.  A smile of pleasure, bowed lips, straight even white teeth, and the smile gets a bit broader as he notices John _noticing_.  Professor Holmes is not overly muscled, but exceptionally strong, John realises as he twists just enough that both of their shoulders have to respond and adjust to the movement.  The man has six inches on him, but their gaze remains even and unhindered.

There is, John acknowledges, something to be credited with pheromonal chemical reactions, and he identifies his slightly moist palms, pounding chest, and the complete awareness of the other man's body as _arousal_.  Plain and simple - arousal.  It surges through him, and he is vaguely aware of the afferent nerves identifying stimuli and efferent neurons controlling his posture and breathing as he forces himself back to the moment.

One quick, sudden twist, and John is holding the rock all on his own and Dr. Holmes is staring at him, his own eyes with dilated pupils and nasal flaring and bounding carotid artery pulse at the neck.

"That's it!" he almost squeals as John shifts the item in his hands, centering it's gravity and noting it's unusual density - quite heavy, actually.  "That's it," he says again, not much calmer, throwing his hands up in glee, an odd gesture but one that's suited the occasion for some reason.   _This guy_ , John thinks, _is very artsy, right brained.  Emotionally driven.  Perhaps a mite strange._

Dr. Holmes reacts again, then, and takes hold abruptly of John's face, brings their heads close together, and for the briefest seconds in time John suspects more is coming, there is the atmospheric pressure being sucked from the room and John realizes he is about to be snogged.  Thoughts swirl quickly and he both wants to escape and wants to pull him closer, the attraction was nearly palpable, magnetic, reeling.  Something has brought particular excitement to Dr. Holmes' face, and John can almost feel the urge to share in the excitement, thinks that perhaps it would be worth it.

Instead, Dr. Holmes looks him in the eye and orders, "Now hang on to this no matter what."  John watches his eyes alight with glee and excitement as he pulls some sort of remote device, poised a thumb over a button, and says again, fiercer, "hang on."

John looks down, realising that he has no idea what he is holding, this heavier-than-it-should-be thing, something dangerous perhaps, a bomb, something that should make him cautious.  Before he can protest, he finds out that he is apparently holding something electrified.  There is a vibrating _hum, a sizzle,_ and he sucks in a surprised breath.  The bloody device is capable of emitting a shock, and the gadget buzzes a very small amount between his hands.  Before John can ask what the hell is that, Dr. Holmes does it again, the charge is harder, tingly, and appears to be escalating, begins to hurt a small amount, and he can feel the muscles in his hands and wrists begin to tetany.  He lets the ' _Jesus Christ_ ' gasp hover in the room as the signal intensifies, starts to hurt like bloody sharp knives, and he can feel that pull where his hands will soon be non-functional and gripping the rock without choice, and, forcing the muscles in his arms that are stimulated to hold on tighter and tighter, he unapologetically flings the object toward the floor at their feet.  A loud thunk echoes a bit and John can only hope it is indeed broken, as it sounds like it just might have done so upon impact.  He stares at his hands, holding them palms facing him, inspecting for pain, blisters, lingering symptoms, or other damage.  He doesn't see anything immediately, thinks perhaps he is unscathed.  Relief turns to rage.

"What the buggering fuck?" John says with quiet fierceness.  Furious now, John glances up straight into the face of Dr. Holmes, who is also looking particularly irritated.

"I told you to hold on. You might have broken it!"

John wonders at what adventure he is about to embark on with this lunatic, and changes tacks as he intones, "Did you even read my email?"

"Of course."  He seems mildly puzzled, intrigued, at the tangent of John's question.

John lets his brow raise at the object on the floor.  "This would have gotten stronger, delivered a higher energy output?"

"Yes.  Of course, escalating energy.  That was the point."  There is huffing and John can see that Sherlock, with twitching fingers, wants to pick it up, ensure that it is perhaps unscathed but curious as to John's, in his mind anyway, ridiculous behaviour.  "My instructions were that you were supposed to _hold on to it_ ," he says again, petulantly.

John can't stop the way his head begins to shake, incredulous, slightly from side to side.  "Hello, _surgeon?_ "  He holds both hands aloft and lets the word and his attitude speak to the obvious connection between dangerous activities and the need for John to be protective of his hands.

"Riiiiiight," he says with sort of an awed realisation.  He absently sets down the remote, steps over the discarded not-rock and grabs instead for John's hands.  With firm grip and singleness of focus now, he drags him over to the lamp at the edge of the couch.  He studies John's hands at very close uncomfortable range, turning his hands this way, that, brushing his own fingertips over ridges and callouses.  John thinks first that he is looking for injury but in actuality he spends mere seconds looking at the palmar surfaces which did not seem blistered or even reddened.  John is quite aware that the hands holding his are warm, cautiously curious.  There is gentleness now in the exploration and attention.

John watches as if disconnected while Dr. Holmes lifts both hands even nearer to his face as if to inspect more closely, and begins to inhale at close range, sniffing the surfaces of John's fingers, palms, dorsal surfaces, and John merely watches as if rubbernecking at a traffic accident, silently aghast - kind of like an oh my god I can't believe what I'm seeing - until he sees Dr. Holmes' mouth open.  He will absolutely draw the line before being tasted.  Or worse, _bitten_.

"Stop it."

He freezes, mouth still open, tongue just barely beginning to poke out.

"What the ..."

Dr. Holmes interrupts.  "You are left hand dominant, but you show signs of using implements with both hands.  Are there surgical tools that are for right handed users only?"  John nods, his arguments derailed and thwarted for the moment.  "Interesting scar here," he says, brushing his thumb over John's ring finger of his right hand.  "Childhood accident?"

"Slammed in a car door by my sister Harry when I was five."

He presses the joint, feeling phalanges and testing joint mobility of the finger that had been injured.  "Broken?"

"And sutured."

Dr. Holmes pauses, his face still remarkably close to the back of both of John's hands as he halts to look at John after finding something of note.  "A pock mark here?"

John smiles a bit, nods. "Chicken pox scar."  The professor rubs a thumb over the almost imperceptible pale mark, and John feels the need to elaborate.  "I was twelve, and it was bloody awful."   

He feels suddenly as if he is at the dermatologist as Dr. Holmes inspects both hands differently, sliding sleeves up to see his wrists, then drops one hand to tilt John's chin upward to see the skin of his neck, what is visible over his button up shirt collar, anyway.  "That's all of them? Just that one on your hand?  That's unusual."  The timbre of Dr. Holmes voice is low, bordering intimate, and John finds it ... _appealing_ forsome reason.  Having Dr. Holmes focus solely on him sharpens his mind, he finds, makes him want to keep it.

"Oh, no, there are others."  John is surprised to hear the moderately flirtatious teasing in his own voice.

Dr. Holmes head raises as if he is a shark smelling blood, circling, focused.  "Where?" and he delivers this with a saucy smile himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Now that's a bit personal, don't you think?"

"Not if you're going to be my TA, my _personal_ TA, I don't."  Dr. Holmes straightens up, embracing a bit of an authoritarian stance.  "Show me."  There is still a gleam in his eye.

"Piss off," John says courageously, wondering how much he is bluffing, how much he would defy this man if pressed.  "I don't need the grade badly enough to do that."

"Be careful what you decide to make challenging for me.  I thrive on challenges of all shapes and sizes."  Dr Holmes smirks and the smile lines at mouth and eye now convey clear as anything that John has been added to the list of desirable things to pursue.

Choosing to ignore the innuendo, John says, "Be careful yourself that you don't risk injury to my hands, then."  John snorts a bit at the incredibly stupid idea of what Dr. Holmes had done, had almost done anyway, to him.  "Unacceptable."

"If I lend you gloves, can we give it another go?"

"No."  And with that, John glances around the flat, takes in what must be the abode of an eccentric with ... he can't even characterise what he sees:  science equipment, tonnes of art supplies, old wallpaper with signs of use and abuse, a pencil-lined work on an easel, piles of books both academic and art field related, and an official-looking metal emblem in an open billfold that also catches John's attention.  "That a police badge?"

There is a grin, then, and John decides that Dr. Holmes' smile is one of the nicest things he's seen all day.  "Nicked it from a colleague."  Dr. Holmes says that he helps the Met occasionally, then launches into a tangential description of the afternoon's activities that began with a crime of theft from a completely electrified display, the suspect evading capture, and then the missing property.

John lets the man talk a bit, forces himself not to ask any questions, and when there is a pause for a breath in Dr. Holmes' tirade, he begins to speak only a few words before being halted.  "Oh," Dr. Holmes apologises, "you aren't here officially yet, not for this, I suppose."

"No, not really.  I came to discuss ..."

Dr. Holmes is waving a hand dismissively.  "Whatever your required hours are, John, just submit them so that we can prove you met your class obligations.  Which you will.  As to missing the first night of class, though, I suppose I can catch you up afterward once you give me your availability options.  Total hours, then, in an email.  Before Thursday."  He is clearly bored with that particular topic.  "Are you sure I can't persuade you to put on some gloves and hold that again?"

"Not a fucking chance in hell."

"Please?"

"Electrocution is not part of this agreement."  John reads the expression on Dr. Holmes face, and begins again, "Nor is ..." but before John can list anything else he would consider dangerous, he is interrupted.  Again.

"It wouldn't have electrocuted you."  He cocks his head, an eye narrowing over a small purse of the lips. "Most likely, anyway."

John glares.  There is disappointment and a look of what John thinks must be grudging respect at holding his ground.  

"Oh, one last question I have for you, John."  And John watches some fleeting inner debate march across Dr. Holmes' face, both curiosity and uncertainty.  "Are you expecting this to involve any sort of sexual component?"

" _What!_?"  John thinks he must have mis-heard.  "Of course not."

"Pity.  You're a right nice-looking bloke."  In his mind, John hears the words _challenge accepted_  but he is fairly convinced the words were not spoken aloud.

There is a buzzing, and John think at first that this crazy visit has triggered an aneurysm but then looks quickly at the rock on the floor to see if it's shaking or otherwise behaving threateningly _(it isn't, thank god)._ Dr. Holmes jerks then, startled, and pulls a vibrating mobile from his pocket.  Whatever he reads there he does not share, but it clearly was something both urgent and exciting.  Without so much as a by-your-leave, he gathers his coat, a few papers, pockets his mobile, and Dr. Holmes disappears, leaving John alone and open-mouthed in the flat.  From the hallway, over the sound of feet rushing down the stairs, he hears, "Lock up on your way out!"

Puzzled, John does so, and can't decide if he's more intrigued or disturbed by his new professor.

His still-tingling hands decide for him as he walks back to his dorm:  disturbed.  Definitely disturbed.

++

Unexpectedly, the night of the first class, John's responsibilities at the hospital miraculously end early enough for him to change quickly and make it to the classroom on time.  He finds a seat near the front, inhales a granola bar (dinner), sips from a bottle of water, and exhales in relief as he is off his feet and not rushing about for the first time that day.

The first class is as benign as any other first class, and meets in one of the older campus buildings just outside the quad.  The room is ordinary - desks, chairs, equipment, media, and John embraces mentally the word benign, hopes it will come to fruition.  About twenty other students eventually trickle in to partially fill the room, and John scans the faces, recognises no one, and is fairly convinced that he is the oldest student in the room.   _Two credits_ , he reminds himself.   _Just two credits._

The professor arrives in a bustle of windblown curls and long coat, with a folder of papers and pent up energy vibrating off him in waves.  It is reminiscent, John muses, of the last time he saw him before whirling out of the flat this past week.  Dr. Holmes stands, John thinks, to address the class in crisp, cool tones but instead waits a moment in bizarre silence.  And after the first few minutes, _benign_ goes right out the window.  Which was completely the length of time it took for Dr. Holmes to write his name on the smart board, hand out the syllabi to the students, and then simply stand tall at the front of the room staring at them.  Yet to speak, he takes in each face, and in the few seconds of scrutiny that belong solely to John, there is quiet discomfort and John resists the urge to laugh out loud at his obvious intimidation tactics.

Then he breaks the wordlessness in the room, and jumps right in to give an order.  "You have the next thirty minutes to complete assignment one on the last page of the syllabus.  You will find it necessary to leave the room."  He clicks a few buttons on the laptop, and a timer becomes visible.  30:00, 29:59, 29:58, 29:57...  "Details, please.  You will be sharing with the class upon your return."  The class gapes, and there is a smirk on his face as he becomes condescending.  "I suggest you get busy."  29:41, 29:40, 29:39...

Nope, not benign.  Toxic, perhaps.  Opposite of benign - Metastatic, John's mind supplies.

The room is then loud with papers rustling as each student flips to peruse the assigned task.

John swallows hard as he reads silently, skimming the assignment with something akin to dread.

The instructions read:  

         Using sketch paper and graphite pencil, capture a piece of architecture of any of the buildings on campus, great or small, show as much detail as you can within the allotted time.  Must be something built, not landscaping or naturally occurring structure.  Consider lighting and shadow as it actually appears on your choice.

 

Approaching the front of the room but lagging behind the rest of the students, who have chosen to indeed, as permitted, hastily leave the room to complete it, John pauses at Dr. Holmes' side.

Pale eyes take in John's hesitancy, his questioning eyes, and John is fairly certain Dr. Holmes feeds on uncertainty, revels in being in charge, will _always, always_  want the upper hand. "I thought you you had a schedule conflict."

"I did, surprisingly, but ended my rotation with enough time to spare to make it to your class."  The last student has already left the room, and there is stillness.  "Shockingly," he adds, emphasizing the word cheekily.  John eyes the professor, sees that his comment was of course not missed.  He lifts the syllabus, the question as to John's assignment unspoken.

He glances at the timer, 28:40, 28:39, says "I offer you a choice.  You may either complete the class assignment or stay here to help me out with something."

John doesn't hedge much, the thought of attempting architectural sketching unappealing.  "I'll stay."

With a nod of acknowledgement, Dr. Holmes gaze starts at John's hair, assesses him from there on down, slowly as John stands rigid, watching his own analysis and resisting the urge to squirm or fuss.  The smile on Dr Holmes' face is somehow both charming and sinister at the same time.  John squelches down the thought that he is in a chicken coop and the fox has just arrived, and chooses not to consider himself a field rodent staring at the tomcat, with wide eyes, that has just raised his claws-out paw to torment him.  The game feels _on._

Dr. Holmes disappears briefly into the small storage room between this classroom and the adjacent one, returns carrying a padded barstool.  He sets it down in the space at the front of the classroom, then without delay takes out his own sketchbook and case of writing implements.  Folding his long frame into a chair in the front row, he gestures at the empty stool.

"Then this is for you.  Have a seat and take off your shirt."

 


	3. An Interesting Beginning

"Take off your shirt," he says again, a bit more emphatic.

John knows his brow furrows, that he is deciding which battle to choose - vacillating between just complying or digging in his heels just this side of pitching a fit.  He has no problem with his body, and isn't shy by nature, but the command makes him bristle.  And _understandably_ \- there was no seeking of permission, no explanation, not even a polite request.

He glances down first at his shirt, quickly, then meets Dr. Holmes' eyes.  The man is positively victorious, a grin about him, as he, exuding dominance, meets John's steady gaze.  He speaks, his tone challenging, "Problem?"

John chooses to simply let his furrowed brows and tilt of his head make his non-decision be known.

Dr. Holmes does not back down, and seems to manage authoritarianism even while seated, with his presence and his aura and the set of his shoulders.  There is an arrogant twitch of his eyebrow as he offers, blandly, "I can make the room warmer if that is your concern."  His eyes flick to the thermostat before returning, heatedly sensual with both eyes bright, his mouth barely smirking at John.  "Probably without using the thermostat."  The grin and raise of his brow leave no doubt as to the truth of his statement.

"Probably," John agrees, also smiling back, thinking the threat of cool air against his skin is actually not sounding like a bad idea.  "No," he says, clearing his threat, says it again, "no,  It's not that."  With a look at the timer, he thinks that twenty-four plus minutes is going to be hard to fill merely sitting pinned open on a virtual dissection board, as it seems.  "Just my ...  What exactly..."  He purses his lips, uncharacteristically tongue-tied, starts again, "I wasn't expecting ..."

"To be modeling?"  There is a look of disdain now, and Dr. Holmes seems profoundly puzzled.  "Are you somehow not aware that the prospect of modeling, posing, sketching nudes is the primary, powerful draw to most art classes by non-art majors?"

John swallows, thinking his life is too busy and his other demands, his _real life_ demands, prohibited his fully considering the implications of this class.  He isn't sure if it is even true, that claim.  He attempts to school his features, looks back to meet Dr. Holmes square on.

The smile that he sees now is completely one-sided, the left side of Dr. Holmes' face with a broader smile than the right, more lines, mouth open a bit more on the one side, and John recalls the time his morning rounds included the discovery of a new onset stroke in a post carotid endarterectomy patient.  That finding had been tragic, while this smile, he waffles quickly and decides, this smile is youthful, alive,  _adorable_.  John knows his professor is young already, but this lopsided smile makes him look barely out of adolescence.  He wisely keeps that thought to himself.

Dr. Holmes smiles.  "I wish to sketch you.  Remove your shirt please."

 _Fuck it all,_ John thinks, his hand reaching for the top button of his shirt.

++

The removed shirt is bunched up and folded over his thigh, while John sits upright trying to decide where to look.   Directly back at Dr. Holmes is too unsettling, and for the few seconds he considers and attempts it, his fidgeting is unstoppable.  The clock on the wall over the door suits, but he finds the consideration of when the class will return makes his shoulder muscles tense, so he keeps his face pointed toward the rear of the classroom, mostly just staring at nothing, on screen-saver, as he listens to the scrape and sizzle of pencil to paper.  He is peripherally aware of broad strokes, of fine fill lines, shading and outlining, of being the focus and under the laser-sharp intensity of Dr. Holmes attention and study.  His mind wanders a bit, thinking of how he is being seen, measured, recreated, by this artistic, this unpredictable --

There is movement at his knee.  John is unaware that Dr. Holmes had moved until his shirt was whisked from his leg and tossed at his sternum.  "We're done here," he says, the whisper sultry and low.  Voices and footsteps in the hallway are distant but approaching, and John's glance takes in 4:18, 4:17, 4:16 remaining on the countdown timer.  "For the moment anyway," he adds in a low pitch, as John slides forward on the stool to stand.  "Get dressed."

The baritone gravel of Dr. Holmes speech is enough to make John's heart race in near-shame, but the way he leans close and speaks intimately with him immediately makes the guilty feelings burst into flame, his face flushing hotly and his palms sweaty.  The first student enters the room, only slightly more breathless than John is, just as John finishes buttoning the final button, having turned his back to the doorway just to be sure he wasn't seen fastening his clothes.  He needn't have worried - the way Dr. Holmes swoops down on the student for a first glance at their assignment, like an eagle attacking its prey - the student doesn't see past their own discomfort of being in the hot seat.  Had John thought of that phrase, he would have been sympathetically amused at the parallel.

++

The next section of the class period, John manages to blend in, offers a few prompted insights on some of the assignments but otherwise seems to fly under the radar of most of the room occupants.  The architectural sketches are held up by each student and shared in smaller groups, while Dr. Holmes rounds to offer discussion.  Unfortunately for most students, _discussion_ to Dr. Holmes extrapolates to perhaps several criticisms and the pointing out of shortcomings.  These are rarely coupled with, if the student was on the lucky end of the spectrum, maybe one positive word of feedback.  John finds himself grateful that he didn't choose to actually have to sketch anything and then be sacrificed, offered up as a public spectacle.

Dr. Holmes manages to salvage the evening with a few explanations about their actual artwork not being graded except as participation, which seems to generate a collective sigh of relief.  He then gathers more interest as he introduces himself a bit more, giving a brief but passionate explanation of how crucial the arts are in everyday living, but the turning up the dial of interest when he explains his role as liaison and professional consult with the Met, how he can solve the unsolvable crimes, can parse out solutions, can unearth details quickly and with great accuracy.  He succinctly describes a few of the cases he has assisted on, some of the clues that his eye has managed to pick up that others overlooked.  One of the more interesting out-of-class seminars he will likely offer, he explains, may be a joint class with some of the officers, detectives, and investigators where he will have a few crime scenes staged.  Each attendant there will be provided opportunity to investigate, document, sketch, and witness first-hand how Dr. Holmes' input can be not only unique but insightful and irreplaceable.

"Nice work tonight, for a first class."  While the compliment sounds mildly trite, to John's ears it is also something of an insult, as if he was disappointed in their performance.  "There are a few additional housekeeping issues.  First, there is a TA for the class, stand up Mr. Watson," and when John eases slowly to his feet, Dr. Holmes continues, "who will be assisting with various mundane duties, supplies and the like, as well as helping me with some in-class as well as some of the out-of-class activities," at which point one of the other students clears their throat with intimation of impropriety.  Dr. Holmes rivets a piercing glare at the student, silently intimidating and fiercely displeased, then continues, "Yes, well then, Mr. Watson, come on up here please."  John moves to the front of the room, flicks a glance at the throat-clearing student who is positively submissive/subdued/chastised/cringing at the desk.  The barstool is brought back to the center front of the room and John stands in front of it, makes no effort to sit and does not plan on being the center of attention like this for long.  He hopes, anyway.  "We have perhaps twenty minutes left of class, and heaven knows I can't afford to waste it."  A warm hand presses into John's shoulder, holding him, stays there casually as the entire class including John waits to see what is in store for them all next.

They are not disappointed that the prof again proves that this class is going to be unique.  Particularly not John, who, under the warm hand of the professor, colours mildly, as Dr. Holmes says, "Faces.  Let's talk about the face, _this one_ in particular, shall we?  With rare exception, no two are alike."  From where he stands behind John's shoulder, he lifts John's chin with a long finger.  "Ah, very nice.  There is the blush we've been expecting."  The snickering that follows is tentative and this time not followed by any glaring from the professor.

He discusses the very crucially important role of the police sketch artist, explaining first that the greatest skill is not specifically drawing but listening to the person doing the describing, using basic art skills over high technology available.  He leads them briefly through a composite sketch, the summary of the process, and how the artist and witness jointly refine and revise different facial characteristics.  As he starts to mention skin tones, he catches John's eye and their gaze holds for a few moments.  He nods in wordless direction, at the chair.  John freezes just a little, halts, trying not to picture himself sitting in the chair again without his shirt.  Without missing any cadence to his lecture, Dr. Holmes then points to the seat while angling an eyebrow up in a displeased arch.  John feels the slightest twinge of accomplishment, at least having delayed the demand, then perches on the edge of the stool as Dr. Holmes mentions that most faces are not completely symmetrical.  "Although this one is fairly close, which I could prove to you very easily with a camera and mirror."  From his vantage point, he stares at John as if inspecting a piece of meat or an item of jewellery for purchase, finds it merely ... _acceptable_.

John settles back into the chair, vastly uncomfortable and trying not to reveal it, as the teacher begins to discuss the details of his face, the slant of his nose, the slash of his mouth, the varying fullness of his upper lip compared to his lower.  When he mentions eyebrows, John raises one, and Dr. Holmes comments on it, whispers, "perfect!", asks John to "hold it right there!"  He stands behind John, then, a finger pointing to the raised brow as he explains the slight shift in brow line when there is asymmetry and how the skin folds just slightly in response, even the change in both hairline and ear shape.  John manages to hold the expression and can feel the warmth emanating off Dr. Holmes' body as he presses against him from behind in order to reach the various sections of his face, fingertips brushing or pointing as he talks.  John has never felt more under a microscope as he hears the blood pounding in his ears almost muffling out the words Dr. Holmes is saying, "... laugh and wrinkle lines, here, and here..." this punctuated with fingers moving his eyebrows just a bit, touching his mouth.  Dr. Holmes lunges to the lectern to grab a folder, proceeds to hold it over the lower half of John's face.  "Smile," he commands.

John does.

"See that, not a real smile.  Nothing about the eyes moved, no lines, no change in the set of here, or here," he says, brushing fingertips over John's face.  "Now, a real smile please, or I shall be forced to tell an off-colour joke, or find something else to genuinely amuse us all, to show the difference."  He pauses, his free hand slipping out of sight behind John's back, brushing just barely to his waist, then subtly caressing that area where his lumbar spine curves, giving the shirt a quick tug as if he were ready to remove it for him.  John can only hope that he is not terribly blushing again, feels his face remaining warm as he tries to follow instructions.  The smile, however, John finds genuine and easy.  "Good, see the difference?" and a few class members nod as they watch.  The folder is returned to the desk, and Dr. Holmes turns his attention back to John's face.

Eventually, he works his way down to the jaw, mentions the differences in the more squared male mandible versus the smaller female jaw, the skull, and then the overall bone structure particularly the broader forehead of the male skeleton.  His warm fingers occasionally touch his face while the other hand is steadyingly along his upper arm.  As if John can forget how close they are, how familiar they seem to each other.

John's mind quickly forges ahead, knowing the primary skeletal differences between the genders, after the greater thickness of male bones, is pelvic.  With any luck, he considers, hopefully the class Dr. Holmes will be discussing that, he will be up to his elbows in a patient over at the hospital.  There is a nudge against his neck that draws him back to the present moment where he remains on display.

Without seeming to particularly care that Dr. Holmes has completely and fully invaded John's personal boundaries, he grabs John's head, turns it to begin discussing the many different shapes and configurations of the ear and mandible.  There is discussion of when John shaved last and that he likely uses a straight blade, then pauses until John smiles a bit and nods from within the confines of the artists hands.  He mentions, correctly,  John is pleased, some of the congenital links of ear development with certain physical ailments - fetal alcohol syndrome and renal structure pathophysiologic abnormalities.  Additionally, he mentions that certain chromosomal variants can be linked with low-set ears.

"I should point out a few things about flesh, skin tone, and colour.  Turgor here is good, normal, as expected," he says pinching just a bit over the fleshy part of John's cheeks, and John can feel tingles where Dr. Holmes' fingertips press then release.  "Though the best place to see tenting," and he explains what that is and how sensitive an observation it is, "is the back of the hand."  John lifts his arm so that the prof can demonstrate what he is referring to, and their eyes meet in a silent exchange about John automatically volunteering, appropriately engaged, without being prompted.  The eye contact is strangely intimate and leaves John entirely too aware of his breathing.  He is also acutely aware of the location of the other body next to him, of the presence of Dr. Holmes' black dress shoe touching just barely John's own casual trainer.  "I should also point out that our subject here is rather uncomfortable in this situation.  There is a flush across his cheeks that might not be obvious unless he'd been observed casually in a different, non-stressful setting."  John feels the warmth of a long finger invading his shirt collar, feels it pull it away enough to point out to the class that the flush is likely spread over John's upper chest as it is visible in the neck area as well.  "Faces.  For next class, sketch three different faces in whatever expression you choose - pen, pencil, black and white media only.  Bring them with you to class."  He pauses again.  "If there are no questions, you are dismissed."

There is shuffling and gathering of belongings and most students file out with only casual farewells and a few students with words of thanks for an interesting class.

"Watson, a word please?"

John stops, waits, students leaving quickly and finally the room is empty save the two of them.  "It's John."

"Thank you for this.  Choosing to give me a hard time in front of the class would have ended badly for you, you realise."

"Obviously," John admits.  "I'm not an idiot, Dr. Holmes," he adds, matter of factly.

"Call me Sherlock."

John wants to parrot the name back, chooses not to.  "All right."

"I took a look at your transcript.  Impressive.  You are of course looking to pass this course."

"I should think that is a given, yes."

"Seems you're right on the edge of magna cum laude, and to my calculations, this class could certainly put you either in or out."

"I haven't done that math on that, actually."  He doubts that two measly credits could make or break the status.

"How badly do you want the honours distinction?"  The pale eyes smile into John's dark ones, and John can feel the vibrato of Sherlock's voice somehow beneath his own sternum.  They are traversing, John thinks, possibly dangerous territory.

"That all depends on what it's going to cost me, I suppose."

There is much exchanged between them without the use of additional words.  There is Sherlock's smile and John's nod, pheromones and a chemical bond developing.  There is a smirk and a glance from eyes to mouth on both sides.  John can feel his shoulders square and does nothing to mask the interest in his eyes.  John knows his chest is out, doesn't care, can see the way Sherlock angles his body in John's line of vision.  They are preening for each other, a mating dance, a call of the wild.

It is beautiful and exciting and _thrilling._

“Well, for starters, I will be needing your services one evening next week outside of class, either Monday or Tuesday.”

“For what, exactly?” John asks.

The look Dr. Holmes fires at him is nothing short of ‘how dare you question me.’

In his mind, John decides he is probably more interested in the man but knows he also needs the grade.  He nods his impending agreement, briefly consults the calendar on his mobile.  “I am free on Monday.  Where, what time, should I bring anything? That sort of thing.”

“My flat, half six. We will go from there to the training lab at the Met, where I am staging a small session on blood spatter analysis for investigators as well as their sketch artists.”

“I’m lugging supplies, then?” John is already thinking that his studying requirements are going to need to be rearranged in order to accommodate this completely unplanned evening out.  "Other crucial duties, like fetching your tea?” and he wishes he could inhale the words back in to choke on their harsh edge that come out harder than intended.  He brushes his fingers through his hair, counting down only one day gone in this class, and the many weeks remaining. The goal was close, and would be worth it, unless he snaps and crosses a line somehow.  He doesn't want to be dropped from the class, hopes all is well, reins in his tongue.

“No, John. You’ll be my murder victim. My model.”

“Your model.”

"Although assistance with supplies would be helpful," he admits, then explains, “I’m displaying blood stain spatters, as I have already said. I’ll be using you to demonstrate various angles and methods of injury.  You will portray the victim of assault. All you have to do is stand there.  Or lie there, whichever is needed.”

John stares.  Maybe, he thinks to himself, he can sneak in a single earbud, listen to one of his recorded lectures, and get some studying in while he pretends to be dead.  Two credits and course completion?  He hopes it is worth it.  "No actual injury," he clarifies.  "And not my blood, either."

Sherlock smiles, then, in both approval and mirth.  "You and your bloody conditions.  Fine," he grouches, as if it is a hardship, a disappointment, and John chuckles quietly.  "Oh, John?"  John turns back to see what Sherlock has rustled with in his hand.  He is holding out the open sketch pad.  "Thought you might want to take a look at this."  

His own face stares back at him from the page.  Sherlock has sketched him - eyes, hair, outline of jaw, mouth.  His expression is nothing short of vibrant and intense, not a smile particularly, but very much engrossed.  The set of his eyes is seductive somehow, just the barest hint of flirting, of agreement, of magnetic charm.   _Sensual_.  John raises his eyes, forcing them off the page when he wanted to keep viewing, but more inclined to take in Sherlock's own expression.  He is watching John with the sharp focus of a hawk, gauging his reaction.  "That's ummm...." John begins, dropping to look again.  "I'm not sure the right word."

"You mean it feels odd to compliment my work because it compliments _you_?"  Dry mouthed, John shrugs, although he has a point.  To say that the sketch is fantastic would sound a bit conceited.  "That's how I see you."  The swallow sticks a bit in John's throat as he can think of no response.  "Or at least, how I plan to see you.  Soon."

Somehow, Sherlock has managed to suspend John's capacity for speech, momentarily, and when John can stand the awkward silence no longer, he takes note of something and lets out a nervous laugh.  "You didn't actually need me to take off the shirt, now, did you?"  The image is strictly from the neck upward with nothing - neither clothing nor skin - even outlined lower than that.  "It was all a control thing for you, wasn't it?"

"I enjoyed it.  And," his voice lowers again, eyes downcast onto John's neck, "I dare say, so did you."

"Not what I asked."

"It might not have been necessary."  John can tell the concession does not come easily, appreciates the candor.  "It was conditioned response training, for you.  It'll ultimately make it easier to say yes to my next request."

John can feel his wits engage.   _All right, then, into battle_ , he thinks.  "Got it. Your tea of course.  Earl grey, two sugars."  Sherlock looks over with a small bit of surprise.  "You're right, of course, Sherlock.  That request was rather easy."  Part of him thinks a wordless, immediate, dramatic exit is his best option, but he has had enough on the defensive side of the equation and wants to wrestle back a little bit of being in control, to press his advantage.  He steps closer to Sherlock,  "I may have a request of my own, now."  Sherlock is very still, uncertain although definitely not fearful, as John approaches.  Without looking at it again, John takes the sketchbook, places it aside, easing closer and giving plenty of time in case there would be the unlikely protest at his obvious intention.  He then presses his body up against his professors, a hand fisting around the unbuttoned collar, pulling him closer and his head down enough that their breaths touch.  In John's mind, he imagines himself saying something clever about consent, about the misappropriation of power, or teacher-student dynamics, or even a snarky fact that John will not be used by him.  He pictures himself coming closer, head angling, only to shove Sherlock back a bit, a sudden apparent change of heart, a surprise retreat.

What happens instead is the electric touch of their lips together, tentative for only a few seconds until they are devouring each other, tongues and teeth and jaw angles and hands.  An arm wraps around a waist - John's, Sherlock's, neither is certain but neither is complaining - muscle and ribs and shoulders pulling, bodies in contact even down to tight thighs and feet.  Hardnesses between them and too many layers of clothing become quite apparent, both are breathing deep, quickly, _urgently_.  John snakes his hand between them, adjusts himself uncomfortably behind his belt buckle before sliding his fingers against Sherlock's length, feeling ridges and throbbing under his stroke.  With a resolute sigh, Sherlock kisses deeply once more, pulls away slightly.  He says quietly, "Janitor."

"Mmm?"

"Or security, I'm not sure."  Sherlock angles his head toward the hallway, and in the stillness John does make out footsteps and the jingle of something - keys? a cart? - along with it.  There is the slightest muffled sound as well, and Sherlock nods knowingly.  "Janitor."

John resists the urge to roll his eyes, knowing a few minutes later may have found them rather compromised.  "Your flat, then?"  The minute nod of his head and sparkle in Sherlock's eye is an affirmative, and John cannot resist adding, "Nothing involving electrocution."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it," he quips, stepping to gather long coat and case.  "Oh, one more thing," he says, quietly, as if struck by realisation.  John, a patient man, simply waits for Sherlock to enlighten him as well.  "You should be aware that I prefer my earl grey with three sugars.  And milk."

++

 

 


	4. The Classroom has many Settings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the student is ready, the teacher appears. 
> 
> They have a lot to learn from each other, I dare say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, after s4e3, I just needed a little fluff (and all right, maybe a little frustration build-up and release), so here this is, probably before it should be posted, but ... _needs must when the devil drives_ [TAB, Moftiss].
> 
> My Baker Street Boys... have yet to get back to Baker Street.

After gathering their jackets, they exit the classroom together, pass the janitor (who looks up at them carefully but does not speak), and run into a few people near the doorway of the main lobby of the campus building.  One was a long-tenured professor whom John recognises, and they greet each other by name, but Sherlock is quiet.  The man looks between John and Sherlock, says very little but his brow raises and John can only hope he is not making assumptions.  John makes a mundane introduction, and they quickly step outside.

"You didn't recognise him?  The chair of the humanities department?" John asks.  When Sherlock simply shrugs, letting his silence stand as his agreement, John smiles.  "This is your first class teaching, then.  Everyone knows, or at least should know, him."

"Yes, first class.  Did a couple one-off guest lectures a few weeks back, on a probationary status."

Once through the doors to the outside, John turns to angle his head back at the building.  "Do you want to go back in, then?  Schmooze?"

"Schmoozing?" he says as if there are lemons and scorpions in his mouth.  "I do not have any intention of catering to the unrealistic expectations of acceptable social behaviour.  If tongues are already wagging," Sherlock says with a roll of the eye, "let them.  For god's sake."  When John just stares, Sherlock clarifies, "Doesn't anyone in academia have better things to do than care about who knows whom, or to speculate on things outside their business?"

"I would think great thinkers do quite a bit of analysis, don't you?"  John wonders at how the man managed to follow enough directions or protocols to obtain the PhD he sports.  "It's how the game is played."

"They should stick to important data."

"Are you saying this isn't important?"  John is giving grief, he knows, just for the sake of being argumentative, burning off energy, to be difficult.

Sherlock is not above that, himself, enjoying it as well, and he engages with rapid speech.  "Importance is determined by many things.  This might be important to either or both of us, but you seem to have attracted attention from more than just me.  Is this something _you_ do regularly?"

"What?!" John asks quickly, quietly, as they step to leave the vicinity.  "Leave the building at this hour, you mean?  No, most of my classes are daytime.  Leave in the company of someone else?  What exactly are you getting at?  And may I remind you that your role here is as my professor."

"In truth, I don't actually see you as one of my students."

John's face conveys exactly how puzzled he is.  "Whyever not?"

"You're a TA.  Similar to someone who is auditing a class.  You are not subject to the same attendance rules as the rest."

"I would disagree.  I'm working for a grade, and for credit, like everyone else," John says.  "You're rationalising."  He fastens his coat against the cooler air, finds the simple act of respiration seems to refine his muddled thinking.  "Perhaps this is unwise."

"Perhaps.  You are almost finished, it would be a shame for you to get into trouble."

"I dare say, it would be _you_ getting into more trouble than me.  It's not like I'm underage, far from it.  And ethically for me, it's a non-issue.  You're not my patient.  I am fairly certain that the university frowns on profs who ... dally with their students."  When Sherlock begins to fuss again about John's status, John holds up a hand.  "I know.  But now that we're out here thinking more clearly -"

"I'm always thinking clearly."  The statement is vehement, and halts John's sentence completely.  "I solve investigations with the Met.  I can never afford not to be thinking."

Their steps turn toward the tube, walking closely, together, in companionable silence for a few blocks, then John halts, his hand coming up to Sherlock's forearm.  "I'm still _interested_ ," John tells him, emphasising the last word for the sake of clarity.  "But perhaps accompanying you to your flat is a bad idea."

"Of course it's a bad idea," Sherlock lets his grin mean the opposite of the words.  "That doesn't usually stop me."

"I know, I know," John agrees, "You already warned me that you thrive on challenges."  He checks his mobile for the time.  "Well, then, the evening is getting late tonight.  And class will be over in thirteen more weeks.  The challenge might be waiting until class is over, if we're still inclined to pursue this.  Pursue each other."

"Fine," Sherlock says, looking away with a dramatic sigh, as if a toddler not getting his way, and concurrently already bored with the subject.  "I make no promises, however.  Class should still be interesting for the lot of us.  I would presume we're still on for Monday?"

"Of course."  Their eye contact is still exciting, energy radiating between them, still full of attraction, but the distance and the topic of conversation has diminished it a bit.  "I'm looking forward to it," John says, sensing that the power struggle between them is not as disparate as it had started.  He felt suddenly much more equal.  

"I hope, John, that on Monday, you still feel that way."

"All right then.  Just so we're clear, my ultimate goal is two credits.  The rest of ... whatever this is now, or may come to be, is _not_ the prime objective."

"Fine.  Two credits.  I won't be likely to forget, as you seem to bring that up with incessant regularity.  And, I received your availability, so I am clear, and I will endeavor to find some extracurricular opportunities around them.  And I will be most," he leans in, with both speech and body language rather intimate, "eager to see what develops here."

++

The following Monday, John can't quite remember why he was looking forward to the evening.  Two credits, he reminds himself.  Two bloody credits.

He’d arrived barely on time to the flat, to find Dr. Holmes speaking animatedly on his mobile. He gestures, while talking, at the boxes that needed to be carried along with them, and John had shouldered one, picked up the other, and followed him out the door.   It was a short cab ride.  John found that the room they’d been assigned was chilly, and Sherlock’s demeanor was too.

Sherlock unpacks the boxes, removing knives of various size, and several bags of a viscous, deep red fluid.  Offhandedly, he says to John, “Take off your clothes.”

John heard loud and clear, but stood stock still.

“You heard me. What, are you shy about your body?”  Sherlock brings the tip of his index finger to his lip, circles John predatorily. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

“That’s not it at all.”

“I’m reenacting a crime scene. I told you this.  You will be posed as a victim of various kinds of assault - simple, traumatic, aggravated, or sexual assault.”

“The clothing thing, again, is ridiculous. You’re setting me up, just to see what you can get away with.”

“Are you telling me no?"

"Is that such a rare occurrence?"

The snort conveys attitude and John thinks he's likely dealing with a spoilt, entitled brat.  Sherlock squares his shoulders, too, and inclines his head as if dealing with a recalcitrant child.  "You said you would help me.  It's too late to find someone else now.  You will do what I say, then.   _Off_." 

"Piss off."  An arched eyebrow makes a challenging appearance, and John is immobile by choice, strong-willed.  "I never agreed to that."

Sherlock leans in, then, having circled to the point of making John uncomfortable. With a quieter voice, he edges closer, enough for John to see the hair follicles of his chin where he’d shaved presumably that morning. “Take off your clothes.”

"Absolutely not."

Sherlock takes a few steps, brings his fingers up to his chin, speculating, drawing John's attention, wondering at his lip with the pad of a fingertip.  "Pray tell, John:  when you were first learning medicine, studying anatomy, did you work solely from charts and diagrams?  Or at some point, did you get your hands on an actual body, a cadaver, or a model?  A high tech simulation manikin?"

"Of course there were manikins, or each other, depending on what we were studying.  There's a big diff--"

Sherlock smirks, again somehow looking prematurely victorious, and interrupts, "How then are investigators supposed to learn about knife angles, blunt trauma, penetrating injuries if they are unable to see the victim, see a person's skin, watch the body respond to injury and gravity and shearing forces?  The effects of self-defense, the response to injury?  How are they to determine serrated vs. straight edged knife wounds?"  Sherlock shows John an assortment of rubbery scar-like strips that he is apparently planning to stick on John's skin, gestures to the blades, and continues, "What about angle of injury, height of the attacker?  If these things can't be demonstrated, there is very little point to doing this."  John catches the faintest glimpse of the crooked smile again on Sherlock's face as he adds,  "You agreed to help me.  I'm not asking for anything inappropriate or that borders you being violated."  Sherlock's tone is condescending now and John wonders if he has now protested too much.

John takes in the amount of preparation, the supplies, the weapons, the whole lot of supplies that have been gathered.  Sherlock has already told him that there were twelve scheduled to attend.  He concedes.  “Shirt only.”

“Everything.”

"Then nothing."  Sherlock looks at him and is unhappy about him changing his mind.  "Yes," John points out, "I reneged.  My next step is out the door.  Don't think for a second that I'm going to be bullied or threatened into doing anything I don't want to do, that I deem unacceptable."

"That sounds a bit headstrong.  Assertive."

"You would do well to remember that I am very nearly a surgeon.  A damned good one, already.  And I haven't gotten here and survived med school, internship, surgical residency, by being anything less than determined to a fault.  Strong-willed."

"You are choosing a battle that doesn't need to be fought."

"So are you."  Frustration mounts, and John tries to keep the words in, loses.  "This is, I must say, ridiculous.  The rest of my life right now is dealing with life and death, with healing and fixing.  Serious shit.  Patients who would sometimes die without surgical intervention, you know?  Real problems that matter."  He leaves unsaid the harshness of _and this doesn't matter_.  Sherlock hears it anyway, becomes a bit less animated as he feels the stinging insult.  John can almost sense that the attack will now come from another angle.

"By refusing, you are depriving the group who is here to learn.  They will benefit from close-to-realistic representation."  The gleam in his eye is now glittering dark.  "You intimated that this is not a significant issue.  I would suggest that this would matter quite a bit to you if you, or someone you love, was the victim of a crime and you were dependent on trained professionals to figure out what happened."

"Then get a damned manikin."  John's inflection betrays his vacillation.

"What if I ask you nicely?"

"I'm not sure you know how."

Sherlock's gaze is steady, and John is now fairly certain there is begrudging respect, which strengthens his resolve and he begins to refasten his jacket.  He will call the bluff if needed, although the confrontation is both invigorating and not nearly enough.  Sherlock is spurred to query, soft and low, "Please?"

John feels his jaw clench, and there is enough of a stand-off for him to realise that he might be able to lose this battle but still win the war.  "Shirt."  There is a hesitancy but then Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly.   

The tension dissipates.

John’s hand moves to the buttons of his shirt, and he knows without checking that Sherlock is watching his every move. Without hesitation, he removes shirt, vest, then decides on shoes and socks as well as a show of good faith.  But he is not done speaking his mind. “I’m pretty sure forcing someone, or attempting to force someone, as you have just done, almost, is a form of assault, or close to it.  You're not only re-staging it, you're bloody _committing_ it.” He stands there, five feet eight of stocky attitude, spreads his arms wide while Sherlock watched. “This is all you’re getting tonight.”

The smirk on Sherlock’s face is quite revealing to John, that somehow this has been a complete set-up, a test, a battle of wills, a discernment of how hard John could be pushed. It is confirmed when he leans in again, and, as the first few people came to the door of the conference room, he said, “There is a manikin in one of their training labs here.  So you didn’t really even have to do this, John.  You probably should have refused my request completely.”

"Are you always this much of an arsehole?"  John gathers his wits and his courage and is ready to launch an all-out barrage, but Sherlock holds out his palm placatingly.

"I should commend you for agreeing to participate, however.  The real thing is always better. And the class will be better for your help."

"Don't do anything foolish.  I won't hesitate to call you out on it."

Sherlock glances over at the glass panel door as people enter the room, beckons welcomingly with his hand for them to enter, but whispers quickly, "Since we're both here, we may as well enjoy it.  I certainly am," he says.  John just barely resists giving in to the shudder his body tries to generate.  The last thing he wants to have happen, after this last round of disagreement, is for Sherlock to see him tremble with either nerves or desire.

Sherlock greets some of those who arrive, clearly many of them he knows or knows of, and there is a bit of testiness with a few of them - a history, apparently, John realises - as he does not include John in any of the conversation.  A few minutes later, he launches almost immediately into the night's agenda.  While talking, he pays little attention to John other than to touch him, hold an arm in position as he sticks on or draws on certain props that will be used.  Had John not felt the nuances of the touch on his skin, occasionally a slight caress or touch or tweak - and one extremely bold moment on John's nipple, which would have earned him a slap had it not been quite discreet - he might have thought his presence superfluous.

With only minimal interruption, Sherlock gets quickly down to the demonstration, with his own long arm holding a weapon or recruiting another student to hold a gun model, and multiple times he would efficiently manhandle John into position, holding him as he moved both parts such as hands in defensive manoeuvers, then has John fall in embellished, deliberate slow motion.  The body contact they manage to maintain leaves John very little time on his own to be _unaware_ of Sherlock Holmes.

As Sherlock works, he speaks very quietly, sidelong, to John, explaining actions and reactions.  With minimal direction, he guides John's body, explaining what a body will be subjected to and how it is likely to react.  He discusses at length, bringing up prepared slides on the screen, what bloodspray mechanisms entail.  His touch is rather constant, keeps John on his toes, and seems to leave a sparkling trail that lingers.  While paying attention, John speculates on Sherlock's touch, how he manages to maintain it, appearing casual and without garnishing any attention to it.  But there is the occasional breath, twitch, or brief eye contact, that confirms that he is also as affected as John is.  It is foreplay - unusual in its location and performance, but very definitely foreplay.

As the evening seems to be winding up, with many less props and slides, there is a moment where perhaps a handful of the attendees grab for their mobiles.  John realises that Sherlock is among them.

"This is wonderful.  Get dressed," he tells John.  Class is obviously over, with a few people present being summoned and the rest realising that the didactic portion of the evening is over.  "Time for a real-life lab, now.  A crime scene, fresh!"

It doesn't take long before they join a few others gathered in a vacant building, staring at an unfortunate dead woman sprawled mostly face-down.

"No visible sign of injury.  A pity," Sherlock says, John at his elbow.  John glances sharply at the professor, hearing almost disappointment in his voice.  "This is Dr. Watson," he says to the person in charge, a stressed-looking man with thick gray hair and piercing eyes.  "He's with me tonight."  Without waiting for any sort of permission, Sherlock bends down, gestures John to join him, and asks, "Differential diagnosis?"

John gestures questioningly at Sherlock, the body, the scene, the other investigators.  He looks back over his shoulder, says simply, "Gloves please," and dons them quickly.  A few observations, all under Sherlock's watchful eye, and John says, "I have no idea."  Quickly, while stalling just a bit for time, he runs through a few possibilities in his head.  Sherlock bites, as expected.

"Of course you don't, given you're an idiot."  He stares at John, eye to eye, a firm assessment, and then there is a hint of a smile.  "But surely you can parse something here.   _Differential diagnosis_ ," he states again, removing the question this time.

John thinks back to his A&E rotation, the clinical settings, looks at the body again.  "Sudden cardiac death secondary to arrhythmia or thrombosis.  Trauma, although I don't suspect C-spine injury based on presentation.  Alcohol intoxication.  Drug overdose.  Pulmonary embolism if she was recently traveling."  Sherlock nods, apparently at least finding John's participation acceptable.  "Poisoning."  He can feel the gears of his mind engage, something is not meshing, not yet brought to light.  He inspects her right hand again, then her left.  "Left-hand dominant.  She's a diabetic.  Perhaps hypoglycemia."  

"Diabetic?" Sherlock echoes, mostly successful in masking his surprise.  "How do you know?"

"Side of finger callouses, and multiple small fingertip marks from testing her glucose."  He turns her hand to show those standing close what he saw.  "Insulin dependent, probably.  There might be a ..."  He stops, glances at the lead investigator.  "Can we roll her over?"  There is a brief consult between the DI and the scene photographer and John is given the go-ahead.  He log rolls her with help and fishes under her blouse, retrieves a small item that Sherlock initially identifies as a pager until John speaks again.  "Insulin pump.  Still seems to be working."  There is crustyness at the corner of her mouth, which John gestures to but doesn't touch.  "Food poisoning, recent vomiting, perhaps?  Likely coma and respiratory arrest secondary to hypoglycemia."

"Doesn't explain how she got here."

"Might also be unrelated," John adds.

Sherlock considers a few more random observations, muttering out loud to both the DI and another scene investigator, comes back to John and a few of those who had been in class earlier.  "So while I was hoping for something more exciting --"

Without meaning to be quite so loud, John's breath leaves quickly in disapproval at his statement.

"What?  This is interesting except that the scene doesn't help solve the murder.  I'm teaching _crime scene analysis_ , and this is not a helpful example.  Blood spatter would definitely have been preferable."

"Keep this up, and I will arrange _your_ blood spatter," John says to him, noticing that those in attendance were only listening with half an ear and not at all surprised or reactive to the unfeeling, harshness of the man.  Just because, John figures, his usual audience was rather immune, had tuned out his antics did not mean that John had to tolerate the behaviour.

With squared shoulders and an aggressive approach, Sherlock starts speaking rapid-fire, offering his conclusions about the victim, the weather, what she was doing, and where she'd come from.  His annoyance at his perception of the crime being boring is vastly apparent.  

A few of the others gathered are now at least watching him closely, watching John as well, and John is slightly aware that he is perhaps poking a hornets nest with a stick, does it anyway.

When Sherlock narrowly stops to catch a breath, John pokes a finger at his shoulder, interjects, "I need to see you.  Privately."

The challenge, the wresting of control away from him, stuns not only Sherlock but the rest of those in earshot.  "I dare say --"

John attempts to keep his voice low and assertive without making a scene.  "Just. Stop it.  Now, please."  Abruptly, John tugs at his sleeve briefly then walks out of the room.  Seconds later, Sherlock follows.  There is a quiet furor about him, and he impresses John as a tightly coiled spring about to explode.  His own aggravation matches, tense, the two of them.  "A woman died, you utter cad.  That body represents a human life, a person, someone with a job and a family perhaps."  Sherlock's eyes narrow in pique.  "So I'm bloody sorry this isn't, by your criteria, more exciting or thrilling.  But you would do well to remember why you are here, summoned to help solve the crime.  So go back in there, keep your editorialisation to yourself, and _solve it._ "

Displeasure remains palpable in all of Sherlock's aura, and his tone matches his sourness.  "All right.  But there's a cost."

John meets the gaze, knowing it will be personal.  Again.  Knowing that it is unwise.  Again.  And knowing he's going to do it.  Again.  John weighs the cost, the crime scene, the little victory, decides that it is worth it to proceed.  Letting his arms splay in a quiet gesture of surrender, he waits.

"Pose for me."  The hooded-ness of Sherlock's eyes leave no doubt to the private and complete showing that he is requesting.  The words 'held hostage' come to mind, and John wonders briefly about Stockholm Syndrome and how at risk he might be.

There is a moment, where John's head tics side to side, an intimation of the 'no' he should be speaking.  Ambivalently, his mouth moues in amusement, words left unsaid but brightly visible anyway.  Debating, John's brows clench, and he knows he should refuse.  Voices carry muffled into the room, and John and Sherlock stare at each other.  John's hair shines in the overhead light, spots of a silver lining of his blond head, and picks up on the black of his jacket and the fuzzy, angora-blend scarf.  With bright eyes, John takes in the long, lean, appealing lines of the man in front of him, the unknown, the variable, the next most exciting thing in his life right now after the thrill of surgery.  A moment arrived when he knew he would agree, that he would embrace the experience and relinquish his strict hold on his moral compass.  He would, however, draw the line at impropriety.  There is a grumble of voices again, louder and restless, from the adjacent room, and John makes up his mind fully.  Crossing closer to this nutter of a professor, he approaches so that they are toe-to-toe.  

He takes Sherlock's chin, comes up off his heels, presses his lips against Sherlock's as if compelled by an insane, unstoppable need to snog the man senseless.  "All right."

"When we are no longer connected by the classroom."

The boundaries John had been counting on - teacher/student - have been removed.  John doesn't answer again, simply lets his yes stand as he watches the smug expression on Sherlock's face be replaced by professionalism and they both rejoin the small gathering in the other room.

++

The following Thursday, John arrives to class early, ahead of the other students.  He approaches the small storage room where Sherlock crouches.  "Need some help?" he offers.

"Ah, yes, of course, John."  His voice is muffled from within the confines of some back shelving, where he is apparently searching for something, finds it, and is soon toe-to-toe with John.  The materials in his arms, he sets down, looks up and down at John.  "You're early.  Did you need something?"  The beginnings of a one-sided smile starts, and John fights the urge to stare at it.  Since when, he wonders, did that smile do strange things to his insides?

"Not really," John says, gesturing off-handedly at the shelf.  "Earl grey.  Three sugars.  Milk, just like you asked."  Sherlock drills a look at him, and an eyebrow raises in appreciation as he picks up the hot beverage.

The rest of the class trickles in, and the topic is primarily lecture interspersed with deductive reasoning and crime statistics by region in Europe.

John pays little attention to anything except the intermittent rise and fall of the disposable cardboard cup as it traverses from desk to the bow of Sherlock's lip.  And back.  The monotony of the movement is occasionally broken up by the completely intentional introduction of Sherlock's tongue very discreetly at the cup edge.  Just before they would typically take a break during the class, Sherlock takes a sip, leaves a moist bead of tea on his upper lip, and John is riveted, fixated, and entranced.  Boldly, Sherlock continues to discuss the impact of criminology on the modern society.  The statistics roll from his stream of consciousness, but there is a brief moment when a grin threatens and almost succeeds in breaking through, the twinkle of his eye nearly bursting forth as well.  He strides from the corner of the lectern to the desk, and just as his eyes flick to John's face, his tongue darts out to intercept the droplet of tea.

John is hard.  And it is damned inconvenient when, seconds later, the class is given a mid-class break and everyone else leaves the room.

Both of them watch the doorway empty, the other students talking or simply eager to stretch their legs.

"I'm not sure who the tea was for, John.  My enjoyment or your pleasure."  He tips the cup again, leaves his upper lip moist.  "Care for a spot?"  The final consonant is clipped and the 't' resonates in the room for a moment.

"God yes," John breathes.

"Come get it, then."

Despite his immediate answer to Sherlock's request, he hesitates, trying to maintain less of a harried longing than he was feeling.  The few seconds do not go over well when Sherlock takes note of John's delay.  Dark blue eyes, darker than usual, reveal a hidden degree of frustration and undercurrents between them.

"I said, _come_."

The vibration of the word in the room, the gravel and deep roughness of Sherlock's word reverberates in John's chest then settles in his pelvis.  Sherlock leans a hip against the desk, everything about his stance daring and calling to the depths of John's yearnings.  Dimly, John recalls the discussion about waiting until class was over to pursue ... _anything,_ but right in that moment he wonders why and who cares, rises to his feet and almost instantly is pressed against Sherlock, lapping at his mouth, upper lip, then lower lip with his own tongue.  Sherlock's mouth tastes faintly of tea and opens just a bit, allowing John entrance, both of their breaths hitching, and John does not envy him the position of being in front of the room while all this flirting has been going on.  There is a part of him that is relieved he is not the only one hard, he realises, also pressing his body up against Sherlock, rubbing slightly in frustration.

"I may be ending class early tonight," he says, arms coming around John's back, fingers taut and desperately trying to pull them closer together, closer than the layers of clothes allow.  "Join me after?"

"God yes," John breathes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next confrontation is mostly written, and I'm having an internal debate on whether they should just give in to what they both want ... 
> 
> ... or if they should wait until it's not an ethical issue any more.
> 
> Please let me know if I missed anything huge or if a typo slipped by me. I ended this chapter with the Season 4 'Baker Street hug' front and center in my mind.


	5. Let the (Classroom) Games Begin

They exit the room, elbows touching, and there is a moment John where John thinks  _seriously the timing couldn't get any worse_ , when a triple beep sounded, an incoming text alert from John's typically silent mobile.  It is a unique signature text sound, a high priority signal, from the director of surgical services.

"The hospital, I might..."

"Are you on call then?"

"Rarely," John speaks rapidly, fishing in his pocket for the offending technology, "but sometimes if something unusual comes up, yes."

He stops speaking, reads the message, as does Sherlock from his sideways vantage point.  "What is a pheochromocytoma?"  The word is pronounced slowly, each syllable drawn out.

"Other than a cockblock, you mean, at least tonight?"  A quick chuckle, and John rapidly explains in chopped phrases, "Rare suprarenal tumour, potentially life threatening.  Malignant, refractory hypertension, an anaesthesia nightmare of a case, patients are so unstable during it.  We try to resect them electively, controlled setting, but this patient, I'm not sure why..."

Sherlock nods at the explanation but smirks again.  "Cockblock, John, truly?  For next time we meet, I would prefer you to find a more socially acceptable term..."

John takes Sherlock's hand, presses it boldly to his face, and Sherlock watches as John's tongue darts out, sucking very briefly on the closest digit, then is gone and he lets Sherlock's hand go.  "Pretend it's me when you take care of that tonight."  He fires off a response to the text, that he is on his way with an ETA approximately ten minutes, then addresses Sherlock again.  "Until next time, Professor Holmes."

He tells himself, minutes later as he enters the hospital with long, purposeful, confident strides, that he is merely out of breath from the walk and nothing else.

++

The following Thursday, John is scheduled to work.  He misses class, and actually _misses_ it.

The next week, Sherlock has arranged a guest lecturer, which John finds humorous simply that he is already a part time instructor and an adjunct already.  The guest lecturer offers John a bland smile, asks him to take attendance, which they haven't actually done all semester thus far, but John muddles through it.  The man then proceeds to lecture on the history of art as it relates to famous crime scenes.  Several students either fall asleep or are close to it, and John tries to focus on the topic but misses the witty delivery that Sherlock always incorporated.  The guest prof drinks from a water bottle that serves only to remind John that it is not Sherlock drinking, not Sherlock's bowed lip, not the cheeky looks that would occasionally be thrown at John throughout the night.  The prof ignores John until the end of class, when he leaves behind his class notes, an empty food wrapper, his chair left pushed out from the desk, and sloppy rings from underneath his empty beverage container.

Before he thinks better of it, he composes and sends off a text message.   **Missed you tonight.**

The answer is a few minutes later.   **What percentage of the class fell asleep?  SH**

**About 50.**

**I would have suspected higher than that.  Are you included in the 50?  SH**

**No.**

**What did you think?  SH**

**Interesting topic.  Terrible delivery.  And not you.**  John hits send before he thinks better of it.

**Oh?  :-)  SH**

**I was unimpressed and disappointed for real this time.**  John is walking and texting now, paying more attention to the one and not enough to the other involving mobility, almost narrowly misses sidestepping around another student along the path, and the student just stares at John, who suddenly realises he is grinning at his mobile.   **You know the mobile can do emoticons so you don't have to manually assemble the face.**

**Emoticons?  No.  Just no.  Unimpressed and disappointed, my, my -  Strong words from a mouthy TA.  I'll make it up to you.  Your schedule indicates availability tomorrow night.  Dinner, 7pm.  My flat.  SH**

**Mouthy?  Seems a bit not good.**

**Completely intentional, of course. SH**

**Shouldn't you ask me about dinner instead of demand my presence?**

**No.  Bring nothing but yourself.  SH**

**And my mouth?** John cringes at his own boldness, his crassness.

**Also perhaps a bit not good.  Although truthful.  SH**

++

The following day, early afternoon, John is standing in the A&E evaluating a patient.  They have reviewed the patient's assessment, imaging, and the need for emergency surgery is unavoidable.  "I'll be assisting Dr. Watson today," John hears his overseeing physician tell the patient and family, and then he looks directly at John, exuding confidence and letting him know, just in the steady eye contact, that John is in charge from here on, running the show now.

"We'll be moving to the OR suite very soon, take care of the internal bleeding."  The patient had suffered non-penetrating abdominal trauma, no one was quite sure the specifics, perhaps fallen from something, landed on his left abdominal side on something blunt, enough to lacerate the patient's spleen.  His abdomen was rigid, extremely tender, and arteriogram had revealed a pulsatile hematoma that, by all assessments, was slowly leaking, continuing to enlarge.  He lays out the procedure, focusing slightly more on the man's wife than the patient, as the patient was hypotensive, symptomatic, and likely in too much distress to be thinking clearly.  There was activity in the room that John tunes out as consent is signed and witnessed.  The nurses inform both surgeons that the patient is ready to go, and John offers to push one end of the bed toward the holding area where the anaesthesiologist will quickly greet them.  He steps on the brake release of the stretcher, then turns and finds himself toe to toe with Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh good, caught you just in time.  I need to speak to this patient."

"Absolutely not," John says.  He's been watching the patient's underlying pallor for the past hour or so, the peripheral cyanosis, and knows, intuitively, that time is of the essence, that delay is dangerous, and begins to push past.

"I need just a few quick questions answered about the man who pushed him."

"He fell."

"No he didn't.   _Pushed_."

"You can speak to him after surgery."  The stretcher rolls in the hallway, and John doesn't show any signs of waiting.

"It'll be too late then."  Keeping pace with the moving mass of people, Sherlock places a hand on the stretcher siderail and for a moment John wonders if the man is idiotic enough to think he will successfully force John to wait, to circumvent John's action, John's _lifesaving action_ , in order to talk to the patient.

"It might be too late if you don't _get the hell out of my way_."  The snarl seems to have stopped time, and staff, transport, and a housekeeper nearby all freeze as they look between John and the interfering stranger in surprise.  " _I said, no_."

There is a tangible burst of recognition between them where they are both thinking about John agreeing, about Sherlock commenting that John's yes answers would grow easier over time.  "Are you willing to let a criminal get away, for a crime to go unsolved?"

John has had enough, says, "Step aside," and they wait briefly at the lift.  The family, fortunately, is not paying attention to either of them.  "I am not willing, Sherlock," he growls low, "to sacrifice this man's life, to let this man die for the sake of you needing an answer."

He takes a calming breath as they enter, then exit the lift, traverse the hallways to the OR theatre, and the confrontation is all but forgotten as they quickly get started.  His initial incision seems to release pressure on the haematoma, and the patient begins to haemorrhage from the arterial damage as soon as the skin is opened.  The room becomes a flurry of activity, emergency blood products, the acrid scent of cautery, the placement of additional central lines, and the initiation of vasopressors.  It requires the skill of the entire surgical team to control the bleeding, save a life, and eventually deliver the patient in relatively stable condition to the post operative ward before going to the ICU.

John changes out of his sweaty scrubs and goes to talk with the family in the waiting room.  Focusing gently on the conversation, John sits down, takes the hand of the patient's wife, and calmly describes the severity of the situation, the operative course, tells her that 'he gave us a run for our money once we got started,' but she is focused on other things and asks about when she can bring him home.  John explains that he has just now stabilised, will be monitored probably for a few days in ICU, but she is not hearing him and her comments are centered around her own experience many years ago with her appendectomy.  Finally, he acknowledges that his work is done, the conversation over, and he tells them all that a nurse will summon them to the patient's bedside in approximately an hour.  He reiterates that they got the patient into the OR just in time, and that he should have a full recovery post exploratory laparotomy, laceration repair, and splenectomy.

He stands then, reveling in the feeling of relief and exhaustion that is emitted by the family who has been waiting for hours for news and the good update seems to allow them to fully exhale.  Turning to the far corner of the waiting room, he approaches the man who has been sitting there all along, hunched in a chair, head down, attempting to blend in.  John speaks quietly, "I'll see you now.  My office, if you will.  Follow me please."

Sherlock had been lying in wait, attempting to maintain non-discovery, keep a low profile, avoid detection.  He stands, wordless, and then shrugs, "It can wait."

"It most certainly can not."  John's expression is void of emotion, his tone flat.  "This way," he says, and leads a few short hallways to the surgical suite, finds an empty conference room, closes the door, turns to face Sherlock.  "Don't you ever try to pull that again."

"Pull what?"

"Delaying medical care.  This is a hospital, where the priority is prompt and appropriate treatment.  It is not your domain."

"I'm not promising anything.  And you can't say with absolute certainty that my two-minute interview would have resulted in his demise."

John does not engage with Sherlock's deflection, leans closer with narrowed eye as he glares and threatens, "Don't do it again.  I will have you removed by security if you stand in the way of my medical care, or any of my docs, and of the residents under my supervision."  John is well aware that he is perceived as mild-mannered and easy-going, and much of the time, he maintains it.  He is also aware that when he is crossed, the menacing fierceness that comes out can be a shock to the unsuspecting who are on the receiving end of it.  The successes of those times he 'unleashes the beast' makes him careful not to overdo it, use it too often.  Sherlock is not particularly cowed, but does not respond immediately.  "Are we clear?" and John waits patiently, expecting an acknowledgement this time.  Sherlock nods his head once.

A few breaths there in the small consultation room and the hostility lessens.  "How long until I can talk to him?"

"Where is your official permission to do so?"  A steady, cool blue set of eyes stare back at John.  "I thought not.  ICU visitation is family only.  When he is downgraded in a few days, then."

"Unacceptable."

"My turf, my rules."  When Sherlock immediately acts as if he will complain, John holds up a hand.  "And backed by hospital policy."

"I need to question this patient.  You don't understand."

"I understand plenty.  Get me something in writing that allows it, and I'll be glad to grant you access."

Sherlock is pensive a moment.  "Perhaps tomorrow, if I have something official?"  

"Perhaps."  Shrugging, John checks his mobile, which has just lit up with an incoming text, which he responds to silently.  "Going over to ICU after a while.  He's in for a long night, seems."  He shrugs apologetically.  "We had discussed dinner tonight, I am, unfortunately, going to need to cry off."

"I understand.  And I will survive the disappointment."

The snort of laughter does much to ease the tension.  "I'm not against rescheduling," he says.

Sherlock nods then gets pensive.  "She has no idea that, were it not for you, he would be dead."  John is not surprised that Sherlock picked up on the fact that they didn't grasp the severity nor the instability of the surgical situation.

"I don't do this to be lauded."

"Still, she could have at least listened rather than keep focusing on herself."  

John chooses not to answer or speak badly of the family member, but grins broadly at his word choices and statement.  "Do you hear yourself?  You want other people to listen but exempt yourself from the same expectation?"

"It sounds bad when you say it that way."

"Oh really," John asks, more amused than annoyed, "so what would this look like, perhaps, if I'd listened to you and delayed his surgery?"

"That's different."

"Not really."  He begins to leave the room, to attend to a few things with the post operative care of the patient, but it occurs to him that it wouldn't be wise to leave Sherlock unattended, and he holds the door open, stops, waiting for Sherlock to join him.

"I'll be out in a moment."

"No, you won't."

Sherlock attempt to act as if he has a few things to do on his mobile, tries to offer another weak statement that he 'just needs a minute here.'

"Don't think for a second that I won't have you escorted out, Dr. Holmes."

"Let's save the rough stuff for another time, shall we, _Dr. Watson_?"

John's eyes widen even though he tries to conceal it, and he acknowledges the thrill of the direction his thoughts have just gone.  "I have no idea to what rough stuff you may be referring to."

"Liar.  I saw your carotid pulse jump up quite a bit," Sherlock teases, "little sheen of sweat there," he says pointing to John's temple.  "Shall I go on?"

"I shan't be giving you permission to go on, and we both know why."  His voice had dropped in pitch and volume, and it was bloody exciting.  "I should go."

Sherlock stops at the opening of the door, right next to where John is standing, still holding the door wide.  "So I'll let you know that rough stuff must be strictly consensual, if it's something you want to try."

"Perhaps.  And you should be aware that I always insist on the strict adherence to the use of a safeword," John parries, bluffing only because he's never done anything quite like that regardless of conditions, but Sherlock doesn't know that.  John is not disappointed when Sherlock is completely caught off guard by the statement.  He passes through the door, then, leans toward John as if he's planning on pressing his lips against John's there in the very public hallway, but ends up not doing so.  

"Something to look forward to, then," Sherlock says, recovering.

John is simply on, fired up with the successful surgery and their encounter, quick witted as he smiles back.  "You'll be pleasantly surprised."

++

It was unarranged that they both arrived early to class.  John had not offered, and Sherlock did not ask, yet they were both there well ahead of anyone else.

"You'll help me, then.  You're my TA.  My personal TA.  And you have to do what I tell you."

John doesn't even respond to that, simply looks up from where he sits, a look of skepticism and disbelief about him.  Sherlock moves to stand by him, tower over him, arms akimbo on his slim hips.  John can feel his heart pound as he looks up, trying not to engage, feeling a thrill despite himself.

"My turf, my rules."  Sherlock practically rattles out of his skin as he speaks in John's ear.  John laughs, and the hilarity of the moment sounds loud in the otherwise empty classroom.

John can recall a few times in med school where his prof could simply decimate someone by being annoyingly aloof, attempts for that.  "I think not, Dr. Holmes."

"I have that eval form right over there, the one you need for your academic file.  And we have an agreement."  He doesn't threaten him, doesn't do anything other than mention it.  The mention is enough, but John is not falling for it, not buying it.

"I'm not wearing a toga, and I'm definitely calling bullshit on you if you claim you have policy to back you up that says I must."

"Then I'm going to ask for volunteers for one of the other classmates to do it.  I can guarantee nearly one-third would be willing.  And Jessica, who sits in the front row, would pose nude if I asked her to."  John can picture the mentioned student, has seen enough of her and her type to realise that Sherlock is most likely correct.  "Maybe I'll do that instead tonight."

"I dare you," John says as the first student walks in.

John spends much of the class waiting for Sherlock to do something outrageous, something as crazy as asking a student to pose, to wear a toga or something else.  Or in Jessica's case, to wear nothing.  He doesn't, and John continues to wait, wondering how much of class is left before the bloody endless evening ends.  The lecture is marginally interesting, although John listens with less than half an ear, trying to anticipate when Sherlock is going to do something extreme.

There are only a few students left, none of them paying any attention, when John accuses, "You never did it.  You took the cowards way out."

John had never put much stock in the phrase 'cat that ate the canary' but he revisits that as he watches Sherlock's grin, his victorious, smirky grin.  Sherlock doesn't say anything, simply grins and the longer he does it, the more ridiculous John thinks he looks.  Well, ridiculous and sexy.

"Never took you for a person to walk away from a challenge."  John can't resist the need to poke at him.  "I'm disappointed again."

"Name one impressionist artist, and one technique we talked about tonight."

John can feel his bravado, his own victory falling away.   _In spades._  "I have no idea."

"We talked about it not even an hour ago."

"Monet?  da Vinci?" he guesses, and Sherlock smiles broader and doesn't really answer.  John seethes, "You're a right bastard."

Sherlock gives him the condescending look down his nose, the academic snobby look, and says nothing.

"You have been playing with me.  You had no intention of ever..."  John barks out a laugh.  "You're a bloody manipulative bas--"

"Tchhkk, now now, Mr. Watson.  You would do well to remember with whom you are dealing."  There is a moment of power struggle, where John is harshly reminded he does in fact need this grade, especially now that the class is more than half over and he doesn't have many evenings or out-of-the-classroom events scheduled with Dr. Holmes.  "I did exactly what I set out to do, which was to remind you of your place."  He pulls out an outline from the evening's lecture from within a folder, and it already has John's name on it, makes sure John sees that it does, and that this was planned from the outset.  "For next week, a two-page essay please, on one artist of your choice of those we discussed tonight," and Sherlock raises a brow at the paper he holds out to John, "his preferred media technique, and the history of one of his works."  Sherlock watches John's level of discomfort rise.  "Monet was; da Vinci was not."

The harsh red flush on John's face, he thinks, is enough of an answer as he takes the paper from Dr. Holmes.  The additional homework is going to seriously hobble his week, and he wears his irritation boldly.

"Don't be upset with me.  You chose this.  The class would probably have preferred sketching you in a toga.  I was good with either outcome, how about you?"

++

The paper is done, graded fairly generously with a high-eighties score, and another week trickles by.

**You are able to attend class tonight?  SH**

**I expect so.  Planning on it.**

**Going to need you to lead it.  Unexpectedly detained.  SH**

John pictures Sherlock's tall form behind bars, having gotten into trouble with the Met, or characteristically have offended some authority figure somewhere else (like the hospital), and smiles despite himself.  Perhaps the arrogant prick had finally offended and manipulated the wrong person.  Finally.   **All right.  Any lesson plan?  Specific instructions?**

**Email will follow.  And I'm sending over a stack of supplies you'll need for the in-class assignment.  SH**

The email simply explains about the painting of the Sistine chapel, the works of Michelangelo, and has a link to a video file John is supposed to play.  The activity, Sherlock denotes, will be for students to tape paper to the underside of their desk and lie on the floor.  John is supposed to have them sketch in that position for between eight and twelve minutes.  When John's mind immediately thinks that is a terribly short time period, Sherlock's next sentence is, 'trust me, a few of the students will be complaining after the first three'.

The closing line of the email is simply,

_Wish I could see you tonight..._

There is a courier waiting for John at the classroom door when he arrives, with a small box of paper, tape, graphite pencils, and an envelope.  The top page of the instructions are hastily written in Sherlock's bold flaired penmanship

_...sprawled out on the floor_

John doesn't miss the intentional connection of the two phrases, and part of him admires the separation of the sentence.  He tries not to let his mind go too far along the path of imagining himself laying on the floor, Dr. Holmes standing over him looking down on him.  John gives himself a mental shake, a silent chastisement to get a grip on his thoughts.

Turning back to the instructions, he continues to read, trying not to pay too much attention to the flair of Sherlock's handwriting.  There are some housekeeping issues, a reminder that he is to text with any unforeseen problems, and a quick postscript that he might be able to make it for the last few minutes of class.

Class itself starts fairly well, and John improvises through a few of the directions, making them more interactive and he shows the required video, then cuts down on the amount of time that Sherlock had recommended to analyse it.  The activity where the students are to lay on the floor to draw gets off to a rough start, as the class thinks it's a joke and actually laugh out loud when John reads the directions and there is dead silence, with no one moving.

"He's not kidding, Dr. Holmes left this as serious instructions."  John stands at the front row of desks, wondering if there was a mutiny brewing.

John re-thinks the wisdom of engaging the class in interactive discussions, then, as one of them confronts him, pleasantly jibing, "We'll do it, then, but don't think those directions don't apply to you as well."  A few echoes of "right" and "absolutely" sound then, and he decides that his TA role might be his escape.

Another voice, "You're in this like the rest of us are."  A different voice chimes in, "You've already used up your TA privileges" and John wonders if this is the same person who, the first night, seemed to hint that something improper was afoot.

Glancing down at the instruction sheet again, John clarifies that Sherlock didn't specifically include or exclude him, but he laughs and tells them he will be monitoring the activity from his feet, thank you very much, and circulating the room.  There is more mostly-good-natured complaining, supplies are distributed and John sets a timer on his mobile.  The activity, as Sherlock had predicted, goes over well and comments regarding the length of time begin half way in, and the class is more than ready to be done with it by the time John's mobile alarms and he calls 'time's up.'  Most of the students, John notices, needed to stretch or otherwise relax their arms frequently as they drew in that awkward position.

Discussion after that starts with occupational hardship, and John decides to ask for a few other examples, and conversation turns unexpectedly to the similarities of Michelangelo's rather dangerous painting occupation and some of the other students perceptions of their own upcoming career paths.  One of the students ends up expressing something personal, begins to relate a few anxious moments and shares some very real fears, so John takes a couple of minutes to explore options, and the student settles back down with John's encouragement and support.  For all the teasing the class had done earlier, there was nothing but a positive and kind atmosphere, for which John is grateful.

He checks the time, thinking class is close to over, and that he needs to consult Sherlock's lesson plan to wrap up the night when he senses motion at the doorway.  Looking up, he finishes his sentence to the class overall and then stops as Sherlock's tall frame is there, long coat flaring out and windblown curls nearly at the top of the entryway.  With long strides, he raises a hand in greeting, silently enters the room and slides into the back row, gesturing for John to finish up.  With the momentum of the class minimally interrupted, John summarises the activity, ties in the video they had watched, and asks a couple of students to recap something they learned during this class.  There are a few serious, thoughtful take-home points, and then one of them in a teasing tone says something about John's non-participation being unfair and that if he ever gets a TA opportunity, he will grab at it but fully participate.  While John is not watching the presence in the rear of the room, and working very hard at not watching, he does definitely see in his peripheral vision that Sherlock's head pops up and stares right at John.  The class joins in the laughter and John chuckles then refocuses the final point, gives assignment directions for the following class, and dismisses them.

There is more chatter and lingering than there has been on previous nights, so it takes a while, but soon enough it is just the teacher and the TA remaining in the room.

John finally feels free enough to turn then to stare at Sherlock, having gotten the impression that something was off or that something had happened that evening.  "Is that glass in your hair?" he says after a moment, having taken stock and noticed a bit of sparkle under the overhead classroom lights.

There is a bit of a pursed-lipped smile, and Sherlock admits, "Perhaps," and he draws a bin close to his feet, slides both hands slowly up into his curls then begins to shake just a bit, fluffing out the curls and ruffling the dark locks.  A few shards, mostly small pieces, do actually fall out and scatter.

"Care to share the story of that?"

"Not really.  Object lesson for a DI who hopefully will not let a subject have free use of his feet in that manner again," and when John looks puzzled, Sherlock dismissively tosses his head, restoring the nonchalant windblown look to his hair.  "It is of no import."  He turns his inquisitive eyes to John, then, full stop staring.  "So."

John waits, not wishing to interrupt whatever fancy Sherlock seems to be thinking about, as the sparkle in his eye is even more than the sparkle of the glass he'd shaken from his head.

"Where is your drawing from tonight?"  Based on the student's comments at the end of class, both of them are well aware of the answer.

"There isn't one."  And when Sherlock seems to be ready to issue a comment immediately, John jumps in first.  "As TA, I felt it best to monitor the room, assure students were performing, be available to answer questions."

"I'll have it now, then."

"Class is over."

"Class is over when I say it's over."  Sherlock shrugs out of his Belstaff, takes a seat at the nearest desk, shifts until he is comfortable, and stares at John.  "I was disappointed when I thought I'd miss the opportunity to see you _sprawled out on the floor_.  Turns out I haven't missed it at all."

John holds his own a moment, and there is delight in Sherlock's expression as he leans in just a bit.  "On your back, then, John."

John is feeling rather empowered for some reason, whether TA-ing the class for the evening, or the assistance he was able to rend to the upset student, or the overt success of the good run of surgical cases he'd had lately, but he makes no move to obey Sherlock, and slips into his coat.  "Guess I'll see you next week, then."

He expects another verbal chastisement, but the room is eerily still and quiet until his hand reaches out to pull open the door.  A burst of activity behind him, an arm thrown about his waist, the door closing solidly, and he finds himself pulled back against the wiry muscled form of his professor.  Also in rapid succession, Sherlock's free arm lashes out to extinguish the light, plunging the room into almost darkness.  He resists a bit as Sherlock muscles him the short step or two so that he is facing the wall and up against it, pressed in, and then a hand comes up to cover his mouth.  From behind, John can feel quite a bit more strength than he'd thought previously, Sherlock is stronger than he looks, by far.  He is fairly certain he can feel his own heart racing, as well as Sherlock's rapid heart pounding as it is pressed up flat against him.

The darkness adds to the awareness, of sensory input, the hard muscle, the hardness of Sherlock's erection pressing against John's bum, the elevated sounds of inhale, exhale, both of them breathing heavy, the scent of Sherlock's hand under his nose.  And Sherlock's low, raspy voice sounds disembodied in the stillness of the room.  "I meant it when I said consensual," he said against John's ear then worries at the lobe with his lip, a feather light erotic touch.

John wriggles his hips back against Sherlock, enjoying the thrill of heightened sensation and their high energy excitement.  He bites quickly at Sherlock's finger, just once, _hard_ , wrenches his head free so he could answer.  "And I meant it when I said safeword."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, feedback always appreciated. Please let me know if something slipped by me.
> 
> Pheochromocytoma is truly a medical crisis, and once the patient is under anesthesia, the blood pressure monitoring becomes paramount, as there can be profound highs and lows just based on the nature of the tumor until it is removed. Thankfully, and as Dr. Watson mentions, they are rare and in all likelihood the surgery is worthy of watching in the OR suite if possible.


	6. "Drop John off a Cliff..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks and chapter title credits to 1butterfly_grl1, for this one and the next ("...And Watch While He Learns to Fly"). It makes me smile, every time.

"Consensual, John.  If you want to leave, do it now.  Or I am implying consent."  While his body still pins John, he backs up enough that, if John wanted, he could absolutely break free.

"That's not what that means.  It doesn't mean you have carte blanche to do whatever you want at any time.  I'm staying, but warning you not to cross lines, here."  Even the accentuated movement of their breathing, chests filling and rising, ribs expanding, is stimulating and heightens their mutual awareness.

"Obviously."  Sherlock is still behind him, John is pressed like a sandwich between his prof and the wall.  Sherlock ducks his head, nuzzles his mouth into the muscle of John's neck behind his ear, over his shoulder, and firmly latches on.

"No marks," John says quickly, ready to pull away.  Sherlock hesitates, so John clarifies patiently, "I cannot show off bite marks over top of my OR scrubs."

"So somewhere hidden would be all right?"  While John wants to answer that, Sherlock's fingers have reached around, found his nipple, his _unbelievably sensitive_ nipple, and is rendering him momentarily speechless as he pinches lightly, worrying and getting acquainted with the tan nub.  John's reactions, Sherlock is already observing, are delightful and insightful.  "Wow, you're reduced to a quivering mass with that."  There is a moan, and John wriggles himself back against Sherlock again, arching his back and his pelvis and sliding a leg back to rub against Sherlock's erection.  "You should be careful before arming me with that knowledge, or it just might get used against you."

"God, stop it.  You've got that right.  It's a pressure point."  Determinedly, John twists around in Sherlock's arms, bats Sherlock's hand off his sensitive nipple, and stands within the circle of his presence.  "Much like your sensitive hair follicles are to you."  With that, John launches an offensive, slides both hands up into Sherlock's curls, hard, twines his fingers, hard, pulls Sherlock's face down so that John can kiss him senseless, mouths and jaws and tongues and building heat.

"God yes," and even his throat rumbles as he groans and leans into John's grasp, "how did you know?  That's highly privileged information."  Sherlock's pupils dilate when John does it again, tugging at the back up Sherlock's head until he is looking up, leaving neck, adams apple, throat for John to scent, taste, touch, and lave.

"You're not the only observant one in the room, you know."  John lets go, waits for Sherlock to regain himself, smiling at his good fortune.  "But mostly on that, I guessed."

Later, John would wonder if Sherlock became slightly annoyed at being minorly outwitted, or if truly he felt shown up, but in the moment, he is merely surprised when Sherlock brings both hands to John's chest, tweaks solidly, and backs away in both posture and emotional connection.  Then in a more businesslike tone he says, "All right, then.  You've chosen to stay, so be it.  You have ten minutes to complete the assignment that you should have done earlier, John.  And if it is completed to my satisfaction, then perhaps I will allow you to leave."

"What?"  John cocks his head, puzzled, thinks he has misunderstood.  "You can't be serious."

"Quite."

"And if I refuse?"

"Are you sure you want to risk that?"  There is a seriousness and John thinks perhaps a bit of hidden playfulness at first, but then a coldness creeps over Sherlock's face and he says, "I shouldn't need to remind you what hinges on your completion of this class."

Mildly concerned, John weighs his options.  He will do it, of course, but still seeks a bit of wriggle room.  "We go from, this," and he gestures between them, where they are still standing closely together, "to a classroom assignment, why?"

"Because I said so.  Because I _can_."  John makes a face that communicates he doesn't approve of Sherlock's childish answer, and Sherlock's gaze sharpens immediately.  "Because I will be signing that your performance has met established criteria, and because this classroom activity is a required objective," he says as if bored again, and adds, "and because all night I've been imagining you sprawled out on the floor at my feet."   _Ah,_ John determines, _there is the truth_.

"I don't suppose you'd like to give me an alternate activity?"  John knows he is being cheeky, lowers his voice, and fully anticipates Sherlock agreeing, although he is also just as certain that the replacement task will be more than moderately edgy. 

"No I would not."  The syllable is clipped much like Sherlock's apparent intolerance, and John considers that, in this mood, should John walk away, leave the classroom, that Sherlock might just be spiteful enough to bring down John's college plans.  He can tell, see it on John's face, the moment he decides he is going to do as requested.  "That's a good boy," Sherlock says, condescension in his baritone voice, and John is insulted by it.

The irritation John has been dealing with combines with the sexual frustration and quickly blooms.  "You know, I look forward to the teacher evaluation I will certainly be given so I can rate my experiences with you, as well.  Gee, I hope I can find several more collegiate alternatives for words such as 'wanker' and 'nutter' when completing it."  John lets his temper seethe right under the surface, and he thinks about engaging more, pressing his point and unfortunately also, possibly, pressing his luck.  He hopes his voice sounds dangerous.  "I look forward to that, let me tell you."

Sherlock makes an attempt to stare John down, a brow raised, his head cocks, and a slightly amused moue of displeasure appears.  "I would suggest you begin.  Your ten minutes is rapidly diminishing."

Without another word, John takes paper, tape, and graphite pencil, chooses the nearest desk, and gets started.  If nothing else, he will use the moment to recreate the anatomical drawing of the arteriovenous system of the spleen, as it is fresh in his mind from the postoperative visits with his patient from the previous week.  He outlines it with a bit of shaded, artistic embellishment so that it is not entirely obvious it is only a diagram, begins to add the connection to the aorta as Sherlock speaks one word, "Time."  John adds his inimitable flourish of a nonreadable signature to the lower right corner, just for the hell of it, to be feisty, and then lets his arm relax.  Truly, the effort required for such repetitive motions is taxing, and his bicep muscle is tired.

Sherlock has been sitting in a close-by chair, and John has resolutely avoided looking over, unwilling to acknowledge his presence.  In his peripheral vision, though, John can see enough:  creased bespoke trousers, faintly patterned wool socks, expensive leather shoes, and a slightly impatient tapping of the heel from time to time.

More instructions in the authoritative tone, almost angry.  "Hand it in."  John glances over to Sherlock, and there is cool eye contact.  John watches Sherlock watch him, his gaze guarded and reserved.  John holds steady while Sherlock glances down the rest of him as he lays there flat on his back, _sprawled on the floor_ , as it were.  Sherlock's assessment is unrushed, and the scrutiny is not easy to endure, primarily because John's evening had been so diverse - teaching, seduced, then somewhat rejected, and chastised.  Deliberately, John chooses to very carefully think of anything but the intensity of being studied by this man as he towers over him.  He begins to picture various medical maladies involving the circle of Willis, tetralogy of Falot, pulmonary contusion, glomerulonephritis, patellar bursitis, plantar fasciitis...  " _Now, John_.  Your paper please."

John liberates the paper, rises from the hard floor, and offers it to Sherlock.  He is feeling both annoyed and somewhat humbled at the same time, and chooses not to mask the snappiness of his tone as he prods, "Hope that was everything you were wishing for."  He is fairly certain that Sherlock can hear the opposite of the words in his delivery.

He does.  "It was not.  It was globally disappointing."   The low baritone voice brings about an odd rumbling in the pit of John's belly and a dryness of his throat.  "Perhaps I made an error in judgment.  I expected you to resist to the point of confrontation."

"I choose my battles with careful consideration, you should already have been aware of that."  He wonders how true Sherlock's statement actually is, and questions if he would be under threat of academic jeopardy had he in fact chosen to be obstinate.  "And you could have put a stop to this, rather than waste our time."

"Perhaps."  Finally, he inspects the drawing, does something of a double-take, chuckles to himself without looking up from the picture.  "I should have expected this, I suppose.  Explain please?"

"Spleen.  Vasculature, mostly."

Sherlock adds it to the pile, letting the silence settle.  "How many weeks left of class, John?"

It is certainly not as if Sherlock doesn't know, John considers, it is simply a reminder of fact.  "Four.  Three after tonight."

There is tension between them, chemistry, the pull of something earthy and primal, as they dance around the knowledge behind that question, that they had previously discussed waiting until there was no longer the teacher-student dynamic between them, before proceeding.  Sherlock glances at the clock.  "I brought some photos of an actual crime scene I'm investigating, and I was doing a bit of research tonight ..." and John takes a step closer to see.  Sherlock takes a moment to review some of the more unusual facts and observations about the situation, the case, the unsolved crime.

While John is fascinated by both the story and the closeness as they look for details, he is distracted by the faint whiff of whatever cologne Sherlock is wearing.  It is strongest at the acute vee of his button up shirt, his neck.  He has to work to keep his mind engaged, knowing that Sherlock will be justifiably unhappy if his thoughts wander, and he catches sight of something in the photo, points.  "Is that a footprint there on the ground?  Or just a shadow?"

Sherlock takes the photo quickly, looking closely.  John watches him, tries to determine what he is seeing, is unable.  Finally he asks, "What?  Can you tell, from just my asking the question?"

"No, of course not.  Your question is irrelevant, as expected.  But your hand threw an altered reflection from an unexpected angle," and there are a few sentences spoken so rapidly that John can't keep up with much, until Sherlock adds, "and now I think I may have solved it.  Or at least now I know where to look."  He stands, throws on his coat, and gestures at the desk.  "Take care of the room, would you?"  He is gone without waiting for an answer.

It only takes a few minutes, but John gathers up the materials from the evenings class, boxes it, and shuts up the classroom on his way out.

++

"Are you still available this afternoon?  I could use your assistance demonstrating a traumatic injury, another twist on a training class."

The text John is studying is suddenly beyond uninteresting, and John has reviewed it enough times that his eyes don't even take in the words and diagrams anymore.  He knows the material inside and out.  "I could be persuaded I suppose."

"It will be interesting, I assure you."

He explains quickly that he is doing another staged crime scene as his final analysis class for NSY, the one that he has advised John will correspond with John's obligations associated with the class at university, and reviews some details for the portrayal.  John arrives at Sherlock's flat in time for them to catch the tube together.  Sherlock leads John to a section of kerb that has been cordoned off, points.  "Lay on your left side.  I will position you from there.  Leave your coat on but unbuttoned."  Consulting his mobile for the time and conveying a sense of urgency, he looks at the building exit, then hands John a small, hard rubber racquetball.  "When the officers approach, before they actually do anything, you're going to occlude your axillary artery with this.  It will cut off the pulse in your distal arm, and keep your eyes open without blinking as much as you can."  He arranges John's limbs with warm hands, angling legs froglike and arms unnaturally bent without hurting.  A squeeze bottle comes out from his bag, and he liberally squirts a puddle of dark red viscous liquid under John's head and then up along his neck, forehead, allowing the cool fluid to drip down and around.

"Oi," John snaps, "I like this shirt!  Have a care!"

With an entertained grin and a sparkle about his eyes, Sherlock stays close, invading John's space.  He reaches for John's chest, his eyes smiling into John's as he first tweaks his nipple playfully then with gentle intent, then takes the ball and presses it up into John's armpit without a care for how close he is and how familiar he seems with John's body generally.  "Right up in here, if anyone goes to check a pulse - although they are idiots, I'm probably going to have to cue them to do so - squeeze tight, go ahead try it now," and Sherlock places two fingers over John's radial artery and nods while John manages to get the right muscles to contract, which does, unsurprisingly, occlude his radial pulse.  "Can you relax your jaw?" and John complies.

"Am I supposed to have a spinal cord injury?" he asks as Sherlock makes a few adjustments, checking to see if the group of officers exiting the building.  They aren't yet.  "Because if I've fallen from up there" John glances skyward, "it's more likely my legs would splay out, not like you have them.  There would be no remaining degree of muscle tone."

"Show me," Sherlock offers, and when John demonstrates, there is the purse of his lips and then a nod, "That's better, you're right.  And just in time, here they are now."  Fondly and without either of them particularly thinking about it, he ruffles John's hair a bit as he stands to greet the group approaching.  The set up, Sherlock had already told him, is that they are supposed to meet him down the street at a coffee shoppe, on their way to the next assignment, but are about to get waylaid.  He wanted, he'd explained, more of a caught unawares scenario.

"Here is the situation:  you have exited the building, heard a few shouts, and just saw and then heard the disgusting and unmistakable thud of a body hitting the kerb just as you pass the doors."  He bows his head in John's direction, and they come closer.  "What can you tell me?"

"Suicide."  "He jumped."  The officers stand nearby, gathered in a small circle, and John's open eyes can take in the casual nature of their discussion.

"This has just happened," Sherlock says again.  "Nothing has been done, he has not been moved, there is only the single victim."

"Cordon off the area."  "Ask for witnesses?"

"What else?  What do you observe?"

"Young professional.  Suicide, obviously," one of them says again.

From the ground, John tries to keep his eyes mostly open, blinks only rarely, and can see Sherlock in his peripheral vision as he circles the area, making a loop around John's form as he lies there.  His hands are behind his back, and his strides are long.  John can sense and hear the frustration.  "What else?  What do you see?"  He emphasises the word see, and John almost feels bad for the officers.

"Jumped off the building here.  It's a four story drop."  Another voice.  "He could have been pushed."  Other suggestions:  "There might be a note, maybe in his pocket." "He's right next to the building, didn't appear to have taken a running leap." "Might be a clue if he has a mobile."

A few other ideas are verbalised then, and John knows Sherlock is at the proverbial end of his rope.

"Are you all blithering idiots?"  Complete silence.  "Have none of you noticed that, in the," he consults the time, "four minutes that you have been standing here with your thumbs up your arses, that this man has been _breathing_?"  A few words of protest then sound from some of them, and Sherlock adds, "How has this escaped your notice?"

"We assumed it was set up, and obviously he's alive."  There is a laugh, then, and a voice says, "Although we don't put it past you to get an actual corpse."

"Most assuredly, this man is not a corpse; he is breathing.  Does that change anything?  Anderson, now what?"

He answers, "Basic first aid.  Call 999 for an ambulance dispatch.  CPR."

"Go ahead.  Don't actually call 999, but what happens next."  Sherlock gestures at them and then at John.  "You're supposed to be men of action, now _act_."

Feet come into John's line of vision, and he squeezes the raquetball under his arm, while fingers attempt to palpate a pulse.  "I don't feel a pulse," the officer says, "but there must be one, he's breathing.  And he just blinked.  Sir, can you hear me?"  The officer takes a knee, and John resists the urge to glance up.  "I would suspect C-spine injury and wouldn't move him."  He is searching again for landmarks to obtain John's radial pulse, but it is truly absent.  A bit of concern creeps into his voice, and he touches John's shoulder, places his hand under John's nose to assess breathing, "But, for real, I still can't feel a pulse, sir, are you truly all right?"

"Deal with what you observe, not what you presume to be true."

"What did you do here, Holmes?  Did you hurt someone just to prove a point?"

 "Wouldn't put it past him," someone mutters, and if John wants to break character, he would have turned a glare on the speaker.

Sherlock continues, drawing them back to the present.  "What do you know about this man?"

The officer closest to John wriggles his hand to locate John's carotid artery.  "There's a pulse at the neck."  Relief is evident in his speech.  Sitting back on his heels, he looks up at Sherlock and John can see him shaking his head.  "What do we know, you ask?  He works with you, and that alone explains why he jumped.  I'm sure you have given him a multitude of reasons to do so."  Another voice chirps in, someone John assumes is closer to Sherlock and speaks with disgust.  "For all we know, given your history, you drugged him."  "Or worse." "Did you threaten him if he breaks character?"

A dry laugh, Sherlock's, sounds then, and Sherlock chooses, probably wisely, to treat that lightly and answers quickly, pleasantly.  "Yes, well, Dr. Watson never found out about the four previous assistants I had nor the unfortunate way their lives ended, so I would appreciate it if no one enlightens him."  A twittering of laughter sounds then, the gathering seems more friendly, from Sherlock on down, and the man disappears from John's vision.

"Sherlock, you didn't..."  This voice from behind John.

"Of course I didn't.  He's fine, or he will be, once we've concluded.  I finally have a competent assistant, who can follow directions unlike you lot.  His obedience is refreshing."  From his spot on the kerb, he knows those words are meant for him alone.  Sherlock is back in John's line of sight, gestures up at the building.  "A fall from that height would almost definitely be fatal, but does not account for the scalp wound and all the bleeding from the _front_ of the victim's head.  The laceration in the back, absolutely, would have been from impact."

"So he was hit with something up on the roof, then either pushed or fell?" someone suggests.

"Better.  The point to drive home here is to follow your protocols with rendering aid before trying to solve a crime."  The officers stand and, at least in John's opinion, the learning has been effective.  Sherlock shakes his head, "Save the life, _then_ solve the crime."

He nudges John with his foot, a cue that he can sit up.  Some of the 'blood' has started to dry along his temple, and John figures he must look an absolute sight, given the stares of both the officers and the occasional passer-by who can now see him well.  "Do you have -" John begins, and silently Sherlock tosses a cloth at him.  John wipes some of the red liquid from his forehead, and by the time he gets to his feet, Sherlock is gone.

The hard rubber ball slides down under his shirt, and John pockets it as he stares off at the retreating form of Sherlock's back, wondering at the sudden exit and he tries not to feel personally affronted by the abrupt departure.

 ++

John's phone rings from the depths of his pocket as he finishes an op note, surgical rounds nearly completed, and he sees that it is Sherlock.  A few moments later, he saves and exits the patient's chart, calls him back.  Sherlock answers immediately and explodes, "John I need one very big favour."

Reflexively, John can feel his heart rate accelerate.  "What is it?"  Sherlock inhales loudly, and John interrupts while he can still get a word in.  "This was not a yes, by the way."

"It would be in place of next weeks night class, on Thursday, and if you can make it I'll exempt you from attendance.  I'll work with you on your schedule, in exchange for this favour."

"I'm listening."

"There was a murder yesterday.  Another murder.  I think it's possible it's connected to several scattered through the city over the past few months.  I need you to assist me in drawing out the killer."

"You're still not getting a yes.  More, please."

"The crime scene yesterday was too perfect.  It was a perfectly positioned body under entirely too pristine conditions.  There was attention to draping of limbs and angles of the corpse."

The palpitations John felt earlier are now stronger, faster.  He feels a visceral anxiety as if he is poised with a scalpel over the sternum of an anaesthetised patient.

"I will set everything up, all you have to do is play along."

"None of this sounds like playing, Sherlock."

"Well, of course not, and that's why I need you.  Safety in numbers and that sort."

"What _exactly_ are you asking me?"

"To help fulfill your obligations as my TA, as an extension of your hours in an off-site location."

"You haven't answered my question."  Even from across the other end of the mobile, John senses that Sherlock is choosing words to best manipulate him, to get him to agree without knowing the facts.  "I'm pretty sure you're asking for more than my TA skills."

"I think a photographer is killing his clients.  Shooting them, arranging them, and then shooting them again."

"So you need me, why?"

"To assure that nothing happens to either of us.  The victims yesterday were posed, I am almost certain."

"Victims?"

"We'll be posing as a gay couple, having portraits done for a freelance photographer.  I think the photographer is being hired by people, and he then targets them and kills them, and we're going to find out."

John resists the urge to smack his own forehead, to hang up, to go find this nutter on the other end of the line and perhaps smack some sense into him.  He pinches his nose, thinks about pinching his thigh as if to awaken himself from an odd, mildly scary nightmare.  He should say piss off, disconnect the call, get back to work.  He knows why they were not in person when Sherlock laid this out, or he would certainly storm from the room, complain, protest, threaten to report him for breach of ... something.  What comes from his mouth instead is, "Fine.  But tasteful poses.  Absolutely nothing X-rated."  Briefly, he wonders if he has been slipped a mind altering substance at his response.  But he is nothing if not intrigued.  "I am very concerned, though.  We are going to need several plans if this goes south."

"You are right to be concerned, but not about me.  This photographer?  He likes the blondes, so I will be keeping an eye on you."

"Not reassuring, I've seen you in action."

He ignores John.  "I am looking for proof as to the number of victims, but I assure you that it's not me you should be concerned about.  It's the photographer.  Finally, someone has done something clever and unique."  There is excitement in Sherlock's voice, and he waxes a bit longer about some of the crime details and homophobic photographers, and that there are several officers at the Met already digging for similarities.  When he comes up for air, he chuckles and adds, "I believe your X-rated restrictions are something we can work with."

John realises then that he probably agreed entirely too quickly and with too few conditions.  "And I may limit certain R-rated things as well.  My definitions may be slightly different from yours."

"Fine, we'll negotiate until you're satisfied, I promise."  The sensual, gravelly tone is back, and something about the way Sherlock draws out the word 'satisfied' reverberates in John's chest.  "Your satisfaction is guaranteed."  There is another breath, and the teasing is over.  "I'll make all the arrangements for this weekend.  Your schedule you'd given me indicates you are not on call.  Make no plans for all day Saturday.  The shoot is scheduled for five, but I have a few things to go over with you before that."

"You already booked it?  Without checking with me first?"

"This excites you, John, as I knew it would.  You thrive on the adrenaline, as well."

An overhead page sounds then for one of John's residents, and he knows he has to get back to work.  "Text me a time, then.  And we'll see."

++

The directions are relentless but spoken gently.  They take the guesswork out of what is expected and are interspersed with moments of review, critique, and planning.  John and Sherlock arrived at their studio appointment, and have immediately been taken back into a large, warehouse type room, where sessions are carried out.  The photographer, armed with quite an array of equipment, is setting them along one area of the studio, against a tall window and deep charcoal curtains.  He has already set them practically inside the other's skin, and continues to make adjustments, hopefully, in John's mind, unaware of the reactions the touching is triggering in them.  Now the trio are working on poses - two in front of the camera lens, one behind.

John's hand is placed over Sherlock's upper arm, even his fingers are set specifically along the muscle, and John tries to relax, follow directions.  

"Here, over here, toward this window frame, don't touch the draperie, it's positioned for lighting.  Stand this way, tilt like this" (and John's head is angled) "keep your head here now, against his shoulder" (and two warm hands adjust the chest positions of the two of them) "all right, let me check" (pause) "great, except eyes forward Sherlock, chin down while your eyes stay front, grab this, no not that way, here like you're not afraid of him, good grief, don't you guys touch like this?" (John's head and Sherlock's shoulder are shaken together, pressed in close) "deep breath now" "relax, and if there's groping going on behind you, mind your manners" (and Sherlock pretends to begin to slide a hand down the swell of John's bum). There is a pause, and Tony has taken a few steps back, then makes some other adjustments.  "Whoa, that's nice.  Perfect, that impish look in your eyes, Sherlock, hang onto that thought, whatever it is."  John feels Sherlock's non-posed hand creep back up along his waist, tucked into the belt, fingers wiggling and warm.  There are shutter clicks and deferred flash lighting.

Tony is on the move, beckoning them to follow, which they do, moving along the periphery of the high-ceilinged room.  "All right, now over here to the wingback chair, no it's too traditional, I don't see you at all like..." and his voice trails off.  "Maybe, are either of you smokers, there are a couple nice shots with a cigar if you wanted?" but both are already shaking their heads, "Eh, right, doctor, yes? didn't think so."  The photographer stands with John and Sherlock overlooking a huge studio, full of items, gear, props, and off to one end is a selection of settings with backdrops, various furniture. There are a few shots Tony takes in front of a bookcase, and when he offers John readers as a prop for the shot, Sherlock declines and mutters something about glasses aging him.  

Tony chuckles, then asks, "There's a whole room here at our disposal.  So, who wants to pick something first?  Look around, what catches your eye, something that you'd like to be photographed with, the two of you."  John catches Sherlock's eye, trying not to be alarmed at the amount of deception they're undertaking.  "No, really, this is my favourite part of the shoot, watching people get their heads into an idea.  John?  Seriously, look around.  Find something that speaks to you.  Or something outrageous, either is perfectly acceptable here."  Tony is truly excited, dramatically spreading his arms wide, focusing on John.  "There's a stuffed tiger that is something of a hit, if you want.  I also have a few ideas for you, being in medicine, there are a few medical models and I have a framed Vitruvian man that makes a nice backdrop.  See anything?" and in the pause, John simply lets his eye roam, uncertain of what to cling to.  "Nothing, really?  You'd better choose, because I've been watching your partner, and Sherlock already, most definitely, has something in mind.  It caught his eye as soon as we walked in."

"It's not a guillotine, is it?" John quips, voice slightly high and nervous.  In his mind, he can almost picture Sherlock doing a facepalm, patently avoids looking at him.

"Oh, god no.  What, aren't you just done med school or something?  That's disturbing, a bit, no?!" Tony is laughing good naturedly, but speaks quickly too.  "No, I don't see much of a use for something like that."

Sherlock's hand comes up along to brush the small of his back.  "Choose, John.  Or I will get my way with you.  Again."  John looks up to find Sherlock watching him, the sparkle in his eye, a broad grin, and he produces a pair of handcuffs which hang from one finger, swinging back and forth.

Tony laughs again, and John can't help but wonder if he is too happy, too quick to be jovial, if it is all an act, but he is leading him by the arm, Sherlock tagging along, over to a barred window.  "Did a set with a handcuff over here once, it was great.  No dark bondage stuff, just interplay and you could see that the subjects were just having a bit of sport with each other, really, really clever.  I would think you could do that, just like John's face a moment ago with the first glimpse, maybe a nervous laugh and a struggle, you never know until you try.  But you'll need to change first."  

John glances between them.  "Change?"

"Yes, the basic package comes with three outfit changes, costumes if you will, and then the final part usually is without, we use the sheets on the bed for draping if you want."

Sherlock had already cautioned John that he'd told the photographer what they were, and weren't, agreeable to be photographed either wearing or doing.

"I didn't bring -" John begins, to Sherlock.

"I did, I thought I told you, I've got all we need."  Sherlock pats the small case he holds, and John tries to look casual.  "Tee shirts?" he asks, directing this at Tony.

Tony is nodding already.  "Yes, you did bring a few sizes, right?  We'll have to see what suits," Tony adds.  "Oh, the light blue is nice."

Sherlock is already stripping off his dress shirt, and John follows a bit more slowly.  Sherlock's fits snugly, and is surprisingly flattering for what John has typically seen him wear - always a button up, no tie, careful tailoring.  The tee is casual and hugging, and John notices the fit is just perfect enough that there is a strip of pale skin just beneath his waist on one side when his arm moves.  Both Tony and Sherlock watch him somewhat reservedly as he pulls on the first light blue shirt.  "Is there a tighter one?" Tony asks.  "I think tighter will showcase his shape better."

John feels remarkably on display as he swaps out one shirt for another smaller form-fitting one, but after it is on, both are smiling and seem much more in favour.  "Much better."  Tony fusses at the seam, sliding the sleeve over John's bicep and adjusts the neck in order to have it lie right.

Tony takes a few fun photos with the handcuff, and John does relax, a bit, forgetting why they are there as Sherlock grabs him from behind, lets the handcuff dangle from one wrist, visibly, as Tony snaps off a few.  He proclaims that these are going to be wonderful, that they're going to love them.  Then he hesitates, and adds, "I don't know if you want to do it now, or wait for the bed shots," and at that, John has another look of concern, and Tony holds up a hand, continues, "I know you had specified your comfort with going all out.  These might be nice shots bare chested, if you want.  Or even, there are a few we can do from the side in the buff," and he demonstrates against Sherlock's hip what he means, the angle that wouldn't show either full frontal or even a view of the bum.  "Either way, guys," Tony says, "But it's a safe place and you can change your mind.  I couldn't care less, it's your photo shoot, and it should be fun for all of us.  And really, I mean we do have repeat customers, but not often.  This might be your one chance, if you want to just go for it."

Sherlock is grinning, obviously in agreement and game, and he watches John's discomfort as both he and Tony wait.  "I don't know.  We'll see," John says, and then watches nervously as Tony and Sherlock exchange a grin as if they had just received a whole-hearted 'yes' answer instead.

++

There is a cramp in John's triceps as he holds himself upright.  Tony, working from the side as they are positioned over the mattress, is very hands on, and John is having a hard time relaxing, unused to the touching by a third party in anyone's embrace, actually, and finding it hard to turn off the worry and constant searching for anything hinting at something dangerous.  It is, he thinks, mind whirling, why Sherlock has invited him in the first place.  "This muscle here," Tony says, outlining bicep, "very nice indeed.  But your face, too much.  Relax here, John, jeez you're all tight.  Is he always this keyed up?" he asks Sherlock.

They are both shirtless.  Sherlock is underneath him, knee bent, sheets draped across their hips, holding the position Tony had decided on.  "Nothing a good orgasm can't fix," he fires back, letting a question out with a playful poke at John's chest, "right?"  John lets out a groan in response, and Tony engages with Sherlock.

"Yeah, well, you specified no genital visibility, so that's on your own time later, then."  He pretends to lift the sheet away from Sherlock's body, eyebrows wriggling playfully, and John watches Tony then gesture toward his professor.  "I don't know, John, from what I can see, mate...  looks, hmm... Enjoyable." He chuckles, shakes his camera at them with a pretend threat.  "Anyway, your photos are going to be fabulous, provided we can get you both looking a bit more relaxed with each other.  Sure you don't want to take off the rest?  Might at least take your mind off the camera."  Sherlock laughs at that even as he turns him down, and it is a deeply soothing, very natural deep and charming laugh.  John envies him his polished acting ability.  Tony steps back a moment as if framing them in his mind, comes close again.  "Try this, bend right here, keep this flexed.  Eyes on each other."

John's dark eyes meet Sherlock's, and he regrets agreeing to this.  Sherlock is the picture of relaxation, appearing to be enjoying the moment, acting quite attentive and aware of each movement of his body.  John feels, on the other hand, awkward and ungainly and unable to fully focus on anything other than being prepared for something unexpected from this supposedly dangerous photographer.  Tony makes another adjustment, taps on John's forearm then trying to get what he wants.  "No, more like this."  John tries what is suggested, and then Tony turns his attention to their faces.  "Relax here.  Forget I'm even in the room.  I can see it, luv, in the set of your eyes that you're dreadfully nervous.  It's just me, and you're fine."  John chuckles, anxious, moves his arm again, feeling the tremble of too much muscle use.

"You and the camera," John mutters.  "And whoever ..."

Sherlock brushes a thumb over John's jaw then lets his hand settle on the shivering muscle of John's arm.  "We don't have to ever show anyone.  For all I haven't confessed to you, maybe this is just me being a voyeur."

John laughs, for real, then.  "You may have a point there."  Voyeur is just one of many non-flattering adjectives John could heap on the man's head.  Although, he goes further with that line of thought, as the light catches the sheets and his curls and his chin, there are plenty of flattering adjectives too.  Handsome, hot, sexy, kissable...  Sherlock interrupts.

"Maybe a small collage of our favourites for the bedroom is all.  Or if we get a really risque one, we can use that as our Christmas cards this year."

"Or for your mum's birthday," John adds, knowing that Sherlock is trying to help him relax, and manages a bit to play along.

"Wedding invites, perhaps?" and with that, John is apprehensive again.

"God," John breathes and lets out a shaky giggle, knowing Sherlock is acting but his attention is uncomfortable and John feels a nervous thrill from his throat to his gut.  There is a nervous laugh as he gives up for the moment, arm muscles positively on fire, burning, and he flops backwards on the studio's bed, over the lush burgundy sheets, apologises with a curse.

Sherlock relaxes, then, too, but John can tell he is also frustrated.  "Give us a few minutes, Tony?"

There is a murmuring in Italian, but he strides to the studio doorway closest to their corner of the warehouse, leaves, and they can hear shuffling in the room and he closes the connecting door gently behind him.

"Stop it," Sherlock says.  "Let me worry about figuring Tony out.  I'm not too sure it's him, anyway, now that I've had a chance to study him, watch him.  He's pretty up front, and I'm not reading... "  

"I can't.  He seems fine, if a little _handy with you_ , sure."

"Jealousy doesn't become you."  There is a deep rumble of a hint of laughter that shakes Sherlock's chest, and he adds, "Although I am flattered."

"Shut it.  Not jealous."  In his mind, he disregards that possibility as truth.  "This is just...   I'm just worried he's going to catch you off-guard while you're trying to make this believable to compensate for my ... nerves... or ..." John leaves the sentence unfinished, sighs, enjoying the feeling of laying out flat on his back on the mattress, muscles fully relaxed.  His eyes are closed, and he takes a deep breath waiting for Tony to return.  

"I've wanted you in bed with me for a long time now."

He opens his eyes, expecting perhaps that their exchange is being witnessed, but they are still alone, and despite them being in a studio bed, it is still intimate.  Sherlock's intense, all-seeing eyes are focused only on John's face, and John doesn't even attempt to respond to that confession.

"How much will you let me get away with, John, I wonder?"

John swallows hard, closes his eyes again, trying to reign in, if he can, the physiologic signs of his arousal.  He feels the shift of Sherlock's lean, muscled body as he slides overtop of him.  Warm lips nuzzle at his jawline, breath and lips and Sherlock's thumbs holding and exploring.  Intentionally, as instructed, John has not shaved since yesterday, neither of them did, actually, as Sherlock claimed it would add to the ruggedness of the image they wanted to portray and would photograph well.  Knowing they are playing a role, for the most part anyway, John turns his face, letting his lips intercept Sherlock's foray across his mouth, and there is more shifting over him as Sherlock's knee slots between his legs.  The sheet is still separating them, and Sherlock calmly reaches for John's nipple, pressing firmly and smiling victoriously as John inhales sharply, the flush of desire becoming unstoppably apparent.  His hand then slides down further toward John's waist, and he deepens the snog, breathing as if air hungry, as if John is necessary for his very survival, his existence.

Vaguely, John is aware that the door has opened again, and he slides a hand to Sherlock's shoulder as if to push him away.  "Shh, eyes on me," Sherlock quickly growls, so quietly it is a fierce whisper.  "Feel how hard we both are," and John lets his gaze stay on Sherlock's as there is the slightest rolling of Sherlock's pelvis against his groin.  They are, as Sherlock stated, both full and thick.

A quiet snick of equipment off to the side, and the lighting changes and they are enveloped by warm, red light over their shoulders, soft blue from a few feet away.  "Eyes on me," Sherlock says again.  "I've got this."  Sherlock moves an arm out of the way as Tony gets into position at their side, the shutter clicking with a soft metallic sound.  

" _Bene_ ," Tony breathes quietly, reaches an arm to flatten the sheet, and when John tenses, he soothes, "no, settle down, you.  Minor adjustment is all," and he pushes up at Sherlock's body, moving him to create just a bit more space between them, takes another few shots.  "Now eyes closed, both," and a moment or two later, they sense that Tony has moved again.  "Hint of a kiss, no open mouths is better, open your eyes," and then after a moment, he continues, "Now, look at me, barest hint of a smile, ready, _go_ ," and when they comply, he smiles, nods, checks the view on the back of the camera.

"Trust me," he says, then, and John can feel himself bristle.  "Sherlock, extend up on an arm, and when I say, I want you to turn him over."  The implication of the new position is obvious.  John can feel an instant increase in the throbbing between his legs, a hitch in his own breathing, but before can think of much more Tony gives the cue and Sherlock holds himself up, shoves at John until John is flipped over, laying face down.  Sherlock nuzzles at him then, from behind his shoulder, and his arms do exactly what Tony says.  John's arm tangles in the sheet.  There is more motion from Tony, changing angles, and John begins to free his arm but there is a whispered "Don't.  Just leave it where it is for now."

"Lean back, just a bit, good, now John, press your chest up," directions are all quiet, and the rocking against John's bum feel incredibly real, a tremor shaking in Sherlock's muscles, his erection turgid, seemingly getting bigger.  There is a sigh, and John is mildly alarmed but Sherlock's hand is soothing against his shoulder.  "All right, relax a minute, guys.  Something I want, I really want here for you."  John feels Sherlock's weight press against him a moment, but it isn't too heavy.

"Let's try this, a nice angle and expressions, it'll suit you.  Do what I say, there's a narrow window to get the right expression, yeah?"  John is hesitant but Sherlock nods.  Some quick lighting adjustments, "to catch the highlights of your hair," Tony says.  "Nearly done, and after this your choices again,  _Capiche_?"  He is set in place and seems rather eager.  "John, I'll start with you, press up a little just so your head is off the pillow, then, right, up on all fours.  Awesome, and for now, keep your eyes closed, angle your face a little more toward me, catch the light, small smile, you're in a happy place, eyes not so shut you get lines, lightly closed, _perfetto_!"  He catches his breath, then begins on Sherlock, guiding his body position to where he wants it, and John can feel that Sherlock is still, for all his focus on directions, very aroused.  "Here we go, then, slide down so you're more even with John's head, slide your arm back here, don't block the camera.  Bring your mouth right to John's ear, remember, immediate obedience, good, now get John's ear just barely in reach of your mouth, I want a smile, now Sherlock, one that engages your whole face.  I want smile lines, a few more, very good."  There are a few camera sounds, and Tony makes a few murmurs of approval himself.  "John, when I say go, I want serious.  Introspective, if you will, just a bit of a frown, then.  Think about, oh, I don't know, a stomachache."  John tries, can't quite keep all that in mind.  "Imagine, John, you've just stepped on a rock, just the smallest bit of facial awareness.  No, not that, go back to the smile.  Hmmmm."

John is ready to protest, complain he doesn't know what Tony wants, when Sherlock reaches to his nipple with the hand not holding his body upright, grabs in hard, pinches and twists.  It is unexpected and firm and breath-stealing.  The moan of John's "ahhhh" is breathy and barely more than a loud exhale, but it is filled with emotion and sentiment.  And results in a definite displeased expression, most likely, John thinks, might just want to call it  _pain_ , and Tony exclaims "yes!" almost immediately.

John gasps and Sherlock holds the skin a second longer before letting go, even as John's eyes open of their own accord.  Tony has already hit the shutter burst, triggering a few seconds of rapidly obtained images, followed by a few more, "Ow!" John breathes, rocking back out of instinct.  He then regains control, surprise over, and whispers, "Jesus, sorry."

" _Fantastico_!" is the whisper from behind the camera.  "Got it."  He stands, holding the camera, flipping through quickly, ignoring them.  

John bucks, shoving Sherlock off him, glares, and sits up to rub his still throbbing chest.  Barely suppressing his mirth, Sherlock holds up his hands defensively.  He is reclining next to John, shirtless still with most of him now outside the covers, legs bent, and laughing.  "He wanted a frown!" he offers, hoping to excuse himself.  "So I gave you one."

"He might have gotten murder," John says, then chuckles at the word choice, makes a face back at Sherlock's expression of poorly veiled frustration.  "Ow," he reiterates, glancing down as if to inspect for bruising.

"Relax.  Great job.  Couple more and we'll be done, get you out of here."  Tony is quietly pleased, stands close by.

John gives his pectoral muscle one last rub, and Sherlock leans close, bats his eyelashes, dials up the charm, "Want me to kiss it better?"

"Piss off."

John is mostly relieved to be eventually done with the bed, but there is the faintest awareness that while he is enjoying the closeness, the attention, and he is also a bit disappointed that it is ending.  Right up until that last moment, except for the pinching, the close proximity is thrilling, forbidden still, and his heart is pounding a bit.

"Would love a look at them," Sherlock says, insinuating his request without words even as he reaches for John's hand as they relax fully, let their bodies ease, stretching out there on the bed while Tony flips through his camera images.

"Oh, no.  You guys get the full treatment when they're all edited and cropped.  I don't do much with special effects or filters, but I do like a bit of showmanship.  We schedule a night, go through your proofs, discuss framing, make an evening of it, wine and cheese if you want to bring it.  It takes me a couple of weeks to get through them, make a presentation."  He is flipping and talking, then a grin breaks across his face, and he turns fully to them.  "So the last set, let me explain.  As a booking gift, you get included a trifold frame with three prints - two singles and one of you both.  So on either side, you each choose the pose and clothing selection - if any - for the other, whatever you want to accentuate, just say so, I'll do my best.  Or I can, if you prefer to leave it to me.  In the middle, I get to pick after we do the individuals, but we'll choose something for you both, that suits your tastes and captures the essence of you.  I really want to try the lighting out here by this mirror again, with the candles I think," he gestures to the wall just beyond them.  "May even try a few prints in sepia, with your colouring," he says mostly to himself.  "So, when you're ready, up you get!"

His excitement builds, and John watches Sherlock watching Tony.  He can tell just by the look that he no longer suspects Tony, and it is rather a relaxing notion.  For the individual pose, John tells Tony, his eyes, and Tony shrugs as if there would have been no other answer.  He chooses Sherlock in his white dress shirt, open wide and unbuttoned, light hitting his eyes just so, set off with pale lashes and the expanse of chest almost more sensual by being just the faintest bit covered.  When it is Sherlock's turn, his request is straightforward and simple - he wants John bare chested, straight on from the front, make sure to include nipples (he says with the good graces to blush just a little, John sees) and some shoulder muscle of course.  And a few shutter clicks later, it is done.

For the frame center, what they end up settling on is Sherlock's white shirt, John's tight tee shirt.  They find a simple embrace, John's back to Sherlock's front, at an oblique angle, with Sherlock's hand casually covering John's chest and John's hand twined in Sherlock's hair.  For all the words and teasing and lighthearted banter of the sitting, when they are done, Tony looks at that last photo and smiles quietly.  " _Perfetto_ ," he says eventually.  "Absolute perfection."

They pack up the bag Sherlock had brought, and moments later are outside the studio, standing on the kerb.  John feels remarkably awkward, given the contrast to the intimacy of the moments inside the studio they'd just shared.  "So, I guess that's it then?" John stuffs his hands in his pockets.

"For tonight.  Unless you feel you deserve another special assignment," Sherlock breathes, and he draws out the words, clearly hinting at something physical, his eyes dark, as he turns the collar up on his long coat.  "Or if you have something bothering you that I can help you with."  His eyes rake John from head to groin directly and back.

"Thank you, but no.  This was, ah," and he hesitates, "interesting."  He tries not to analyse why he is disappointed the evening is over, that he wouldn't be upset if it doesn't end just yet.  "Certainly unusual."

"Your assistance was greatly appreciated.  You are officially excused from this Thursday's class, then, unless you find you need something to do and want to stop in anyway."  Sherlock's words are businesslike, but his delivery is not, and his eyes seem to pierce through John's exterior, his clothing, his very thoughts, leaving him feeling utterly exposed.

"Pretty sure I have exams to study for, but thanks for the invite."

"Have a lovely evening, then, John."  Sherlock leans in, a devilish twinkle about him, and his body language makes John think of an eagle strike from the sky - sudden and deadly.  "Think of that little frown that Tony wanted, with me behind you, and the reason he wanted it, when you take care of that later."  The downward glance of his eye could not have been any bolder had he reached out a hand to caress the front of John's trousers.

For a few seconds, John forgets to breathe and his feet freeze in place as Sherlock turns, hails a cab, and is gone.

++

"Beg pardon, you are Dr. Watson, yes?"

John looks up from his coffee and the patient record he is studying, taking advantage of the few moments he has over lunch break.  A tall man towers over him.  "Yes, what can I do for you?"

"Oh, I merely wanted to say hello."

"People don't do that, actually.  What do you want?  Clearly, you knew who I was when you approached."

A slight tilt of the head, then, and the faintest smirk.  "May I join you?"

John is innately defensive, but there is curiosity too.  "I don't own that chair, I'm sure you're welcome to it."

Making eye contact briefly, John takes note of the pale eyes, the receding hairline over aristocratic forehead, the regal nose, and the arrogance of the expression, which looks vaguely familiar, before deliberately ignoring the man, returning his attention to the papers in front of him.

"I understand you are in the throes of a Forensic Art class."

 _In the throes?_ John thinks, _who says that anymore?_   He keeps his voice and his expression cool.  "You understand correctly."

"I see.  How is class going?"

John huffs a sigh, and decides that this game is over.  "Look.  I have a busy afternoon, and some things to review first.   _Important things_."  He leaves unsaid that he has deemed this conversation patently unimportant.  "Obviously you want something, information of some sort.  So for the love of god, ask your damned question so I can salvage some productivity here?"

"I can see why he likes you." _He?  He, who?_

Angry, John stares choosing very deliberately that he does not respond to that inflammatory comment, sits unmoving for a moment, giving the man a few more seconds to declare himself.  "I'm done here," and he rises to his feet.

The man rises too, and John wonders what kind of a threat he represents.  He thinks about the photos, the studio, and takes a leap that they are not connected to this man, this confrontation.  Otherwise, he would have no care about John's elective class.  "Just a few questions, please?"

"You can walk with me to the surgical theatre.  I may or may not answer."  He brings his coffee along.

The hallway is deserted, and John realises as they start off that the man is carrying an umbrella.  "How is the professor of your class, a _Dr. Holmes_ , I believe?"

"Who are you exactly?"  John shrugs, aiming for more casual than he is feeling, hoping he gives away nothing.  "And why do you want to know?"   _Is Sherlock in trouble?  Are they both in trouble?_ John is very slightly queasy, mere weeks away from graduation, away from achieving this goal that has taken years and years in the making, and really, really, _really_ doesn't want anything to muck it up now, so close to the end.  He takes a calming, cleansing breath, and this stranger not only sees him do it but smirks at it.

"I'm an interested party.  And I worry about him."

"I would suggest you contact him directly, then, if you wish.  I have nothing to say to you."

"Not even if I were to pay for information?"

John bristles, and he is feeling feisty and irritated.  And broke.  Realisation strikes, and John stifles the laugh that wants to emerge.  "Pay up, then.  Cash up front."  John waits while a few notes are removed from the man's inside breast pocket.  The presence of the money completely alleviates John's fear that this is an official investigation, as an official capacity discovery would certainly not involve a pay-off, and the knowledge frees his tongue.  "He's fine.  Quirky.  Healthy.  Opinionated.  What more do you want to know?"  Amused, the man lifts a brow, and John meets his eye, knows then that it is personal.  His filter goes off line, and he speaks quickly.  "He's a good kisser.  And a fantastic shag."  John resists the urge to chortle at the man's completely shocked expression, although he does quickly veil it again, but John is inspired.  "I'm working on his inconsistent ability to use safewords, though.  But we're making progress."

The man's fingers have stilled on the notes, so John reaches out boldly to take what has been separated from the rest.  Their steps slow as they approach the restricted access doors of the operating room suite.

"Thank you," John says, sliding the money into his white jacket pocket, the one embroidered in red letters with his name, and he takes a sip of coffee to hide the grin that is threatening.  "Let me know if you need more information than that.  With a little more preparation, and for a higher fee, I can probably come up with better lies than what I just told you."

++

John is sound asleep when his bedroom door opens abruptly, flies open to bang against the wall and a shoe pegs him in the chest, followed in quick succession with a medical journal and a very irritated voice.  "John, get up, Jesus Christ.  Visitor.  And tell him to knock it the hell off.  Middle of the bloody, fuckin' night."  There is stomping followed by the slamming of one of the other bedroom doors.

His room of the apartment he shares with a couple other students is at the back of the flat, so he didn't hear the door, hence the angry roommate delivering the message.  And the shoe.  John finds distant pleasure that there were no knives nearby, nor half empty beer bottles.

Slipping feet into slippers and drawing on a sweatshirt over his sleep pants, he rubs his eyes, puzzled and curious, pads out to the living room.  It is a cacophony of furnishings, clutter, random evidence of college life, and standing in the middle of it is one very tall, and very bedraggled looking Sherlock Holmes.

John blinks, then blinks again.  He is still there.  "What. Do you want."

"Did I wake you?"

He flips on another light, trying to get a feel for what is up with the man.  "Well, lets see, pillow marks on my face, sleep in my eyes, it's bloody three am.  Yeah, pretty safe assumption that yes, you did."  John gets a moment, takes in much of Sherlock's demeanor and appearance.  He is pale, which is not unusual, but tonight his pallor is moreso than usual.  It is raining, also not unusual, and he is wet.  Then John notices something else:  his fingers are stained dark red, and he is standing with most of his weight only on one leg, the other foot barely resting on the floor inside the door.

"Sorry," he says, and John wonders what his roommate probably already lambasted him with that he opens with an apology.

"No you're not.  And are you injured, or are you staging crime scenes again with fake blood?"

"Wish that were the case.  This blood is very properly mine, and _if you were any kind of doctor_ , you would investigate this knife wound on my leg."

"I'll take you to the A&E, then, you big idiot.  Why didn't you just go there?"

"Absolutely not.  I hate hospitals."

"Sherlock."

"Not going."  Sherlock still hasn't moved, but when John gestures, he does slip his arms out of his wet coat.  "You can treat me here."

"In this pigsty?  No way."  John looks around again, empty plates, clothing of various cleanliness strewn about.  In truth, he has certainly seen it worse, but it is not suitable by any stretch for evaluating and treating a wound laceration.

"So figure it out, John.  I need you to give me a hand here.  And take care of this."  Sherlock shifts uncomfortably on his skewed stance, gestures with his fingers.

Reluctantly, John knows he should at least look at it first, thinks perhaps that he might be able to help.  Or insist on treatment at a higher level of care with more influence.  His jaws clench, though, as he gets a look at the bloodied trouser leg.  "Let me see it, then."  There is no space, nowhere clean enough that John is even remotely willing to let Sherlock sit on or lay on.  "Can you make it a little farther, back to my room?"

"Your private bedchamber, the love nest of Dr. Watson, I thought you'd never ask."

"Shut up."

"God, your bedside manner, tsk, tsk."

"Sherlock, swear to god, if you want me to help you, you should behave."  It is a short walk, or shuffle in Sherlock's case, and soon they both stand looking at Sherlock's trousers.  There is a rip in the fabric just above his knee, and blood in various stages of drying along most of the lower pants leg.  "Get those off."

"Bossy."

Rather than engage in the sarcastic battle of wits with the man, John clenches his teeth, keeps silent for a bit as Sherlock drops his trousers, sits gingerly on the edge of the bed, and John grabs a clean, wet towel.  Once he can see the laceration is not intramuscular, superficially through the top three layers of dermal tissue, although three or four centimetres long, he stares at it a moment.  "This really should be evaluated in the A&E.  It needs to be closed properly."

"You do it."

"It is against my better judgment."

"I choose you."  John has a flashback to when he first heard about the TA position, when Tom first told him, that Dr. Holmes had turned down students before agreeing to that of John.   _I choose you._

His first aid kit is close by, a kit pilfered and assembled over his med school years, most of it obtained by five finger discount and thankfully seldom used.  It doesn't take long before he has thoroughly cleaned the wound, prodded the edges to find them clean and suitable for sutures, earning a grimace and curse that has John shushing him a bit, "Shut it, Sherlock seriously, it's the middle of the night."  Sherlock is watching John work, a bit of pain showing around his eyes, his forehead, the set of his mouth.  "It'll be all right," John assures him.  "Bit of a scar, but should heal easy enough.  Provided you don't pull out the stitches."

"Stitches?!" There is a bit of a squeak to Sherlock's exclamation.  "Are you sure it needs them?"

"Obviously, gaping knife wound, hello?  What did you expect, duct tape?"

"Glue?"

"You can't dermabond a leg laceration like that, right there, it wouldn't work.  Shouldn't take but five or six.  Lucky for you, I've got th--"  And he is holding up the suture packs then stops, seeing Sherlock's anxious face.  "What?  Don't tell me you never had them before?"

"Nope."

"You're lying.  In your line of work, never had an injury that split your skin open before?  Bicycle accident as a kid, a fall from a tree, nothing?"

"I'm a stitch virgin."

The tension is reduced as John chuckles, goes to the loo to briskly scrub his hands, is still shaking his head when he returns.  He asks, "Ready, then?  Let's get this over with for you," then gets quieter, remembering his location and the early hour, again.  "Lucky for you I have local anaesthetic.  And am known for my gentle hands.  And minimal scarring."

Sherlock is skeptical, unconvinced, and they both stare at the wound, as John leans on the edge of the bed.  "I hear you had a visitor the other day, by the way.  Who now thinks we're shagging."  John meets his eyes, remembering his tall visitor with the umbrella, and is a mite embarrassed and hopeful that it hadn't been a terrible lie to tell. Sherlock groans as he adds, "and into S&M."

John shrugs a bit as he tries not to laugh about the comment, nods his agreement.  "Who was that, anyway?"

"A royal pain in my arse.  Did he offer you money for information?"

"Of course he did."

"You took it?"

"Of course.  Broke med student.  He was infuriating.  And I was hungry that day."

"I'm entitled to half of what he gave you."  John's gaze snaps to Sherlock, surprised.  "I want my half."

"Oddly enough, half of what he gave you comes to the exact amount I charge for middle of the night suturing in my flat."  

"Not funny."

"Actually I thought it kind of was clever.  And give me a moment, and I'll come up with something spicy about poking you while you're laying on my bed."

"Heaven help me."  Sherlock leans back on his elbows, then as John cleans the wound again, wipes it dry, and pulls out a syringe of lidocaine, the local anaesthesia, sterile gloves, sutures, and a few other dressing supplies.

"Heaven, eh?  Church is right down the block.  But I'm fairly certain the priest doesn't know the first thing about suturing someone."

"Just get on with it.  Hold the terrible sense of humour."

"I don't think you're in a position to be making demands, here, Sherlock."  John glances over to find that he is edgy, watching nervously as he takes in the supplies, John's methodical preparations.  "You came to see me, you know.  For this."  There is a hard swallow, and John gentles.  "Deep breath.  We've got this."

"It seemed like a better idea before I got here.  Before you were holding a needle pointed in my direction.  Maybe it will close all right with just a bandage..."

"Not without possibility of infection and a big-arsed scar."  

"Don't care about a scar.  Legs are bony as it is."

"I'm not complimenting your legs right now, in case you're fishing."  Sherlock is nervous enough that he barely acknowledges the barb.  John tries to keep the needle from being directly in Sherlock's line of sight, draws up the lidocaine.  "So," he says, using his foot to draw a chair close to the bedside, and arranging things where he needs them, "I'll talk you through what I'm doing."  The nervous man on the bed is a far cry from the cocky, arrogant man who stands at the front of the classroom and who leads trainings for the NSY and tries to intimidate John and others he comes in contact with.  John lets the compassion well up a bit, spill over, and he smiles reassuringly.  His fingers reach for Sherlock's hand, cover it, squeeze, and Sherlock's face shows a brief flicker of a smile in response.  "You'll be fine.  Now, the numbing medicine, little pinch and then a little burning, just a couple times, ready?"  John pulls on the sterile gloves, waits for final permission.

Sherlock's gaze locks with John's, pleading, imploring, seeking support and connection, and, with wide-eyed nervousness, he nods just once.  He sucks in a breath at the discomfort as John infiltrates the medicine, and they both are silent until John lifts his head, satisfied at the placement of the local.

"So, while we wait for that," John says, flicking the needle cap up and laying the syringe aside.  "Why don't you tell me two different stories about how this happened tonight, and when we're all done, I'll tell you which one I believe is true, all right?"

In short order, Sherlock is crafting tales, all the while the stitches are placed, the wound is bandaged, and John cleans up, goes to wash his hands and get Sherlock a glass of water and two paracetamol.  He is only gone a few minutes, and by the time he returns, Sherlock is dozing lightly.  John cuts the light, slides in alongside him in the narrow bed, draws him close, presses his lips reassuringly on his temple.  "You did very well, Sherlock.  My good boy," he teases, the phrase reminiscent of the few times Sherlock has said something similar to him.  He thinks, if nothing else, the sentence will be a good test if he is still awake, even a little.

"Stop it," he whispers, his voice sounding young and uncertain, then lets his body relax there next to John.

"You want pain pills?  They're right here."

"Not necessary."

"I have work in a few hours, but we'll talk tomorrow."

"Why?" Sherlock mutters, his body surprisingly relaxed for the active mind he is still using, the conversation he holds.

"Because I believed neither of your stories, for one.  And because you must get a tetanus jab."

"What is it with you wanting to keep poking me?"

"Shut up.  I have no access to a tetanus jab.  You'll have to sweet talk someone else out of that."  John tries not to think too much as he tries to embrace the fatigue.  "Or, shockingly, you might have to obtain it legitimately."

++

A few days later, John happens to catch a headline about a string of murders being solved, linked to a canvas supplier who develops prints for several professional art studios in the area.  There are no names given, but the police inspector reported that there had been assistance from a local, private citizen to narrow down the scope of the persons of interest.

He sends a text off to Sherlock.   **Saw the photographer crime is solved, and it wasn't Tony.  Good news.  Congratulations.**

**Yes, thanks.  Boring crime, weak criminal mind.  SH**

**Well, they can't all be serial killers of high calibre.**

**They could, and it would be wonderful.  SH**

**It doesn't work that way.  Society and criminals at large don't owe you that.**

**Speaking of debt owed:  You still owe me a pose session. SH**

**I'm pretty sure my debt is paid.**   Dry mouthed, John remembers everything about that conversation, the deal, the way Sherlock's voice hummed and rattled when he'd said 'pose for me' and the elevation in his heart rate.  He draws a shaky breath.  Then, and now, he realises.

**I recall it vividly, that you agreed to pose for me in exchange for my cooperation on that investigation. SH**

**I have no idea what you're talking about.**

**You dragged me unprofessionally into another room, laid into me for my lack of humanity. SH**

**Nope, not remembering that at all.**

**You, Watson, are BLUFFING!  SH**

While John is trying to think of an appropriate response, typing and erasing, feeling the pressure of the ellipsis he knows Sherlock can see, another message comes in from Sherlock.

**I had you pegged for a man of integrity from the outset.  Certainly you aren't lying to me now, are you?  SH**

Sighing, John feels a lump in his throat and cannot wait for the moment this class is over so that he can get away from this crazed, unpredictable madman.  This wonderful, exciting, handsome professor has somehow both weaseled and charmed his way to John's very soul, he self-analyses. **Oh, right.  That.  I may have a vague recollection of that, now that you mention it.**

**I was fairly certain.  That's a good lad.  SH**

**Can we please just get this over with?  This is worse than needing stitches!**

**I beg to differ, stitches are much worse.  However, you took care of me, and I will endeavor to do the same.  SH**

**I don't find that all that reassuring, you know.**

**Saturday.  Three o'clock.  I will text you the address.  SH**

**++**

That Saturday, sometime after three o'clock, John is having doubts about having given in.  This was a mistake, and John thinks he absolutely should have realised before now, as he lays at one end of a large studio room, that something is very definitely wrong.  It had been too strange a set up, too many things that shouldn't have added up.

Soft music is playing in the background as John recalls the events and oddities of the request.  

 _The phone call had been quick.  "Last obligation," Sherlock had said.  "Saturday afternoon, arrive at three, class arrives shortly after that."  John had consulted his mobile for his calendar, found that he was available, said so.  "You will only have to lay there, no blood or crime scene props this time," and Sherlock had smiled a bit at that trying to lighten the request.  "Nude would be best but thong acceptable, something flesh colored and small if you insist.  Final class, they have next week but this is it for you.  Your maximum pose time will be less than one hour."_ _John had balked at the 'nude' request, but after the classes already past and the fact that he was almost done, he opted to save that battle for game day.  In all likelihood, he would probably never, he considers, see these people again._

_"At the completion of your modeling time, I will sign off on your TA paperwork and class will be completely over for you.  You will have completed enough hours for me that I have no problem signing off."  John had done a bit of maths in his head, knew he was getting many hours completely forgiven, thought that was perhaps compensation._

_Even the preparations had been unusual, not what John had been expecting.  The studio Sherlock had opened was a divided room, and he had led John to the small section, "I'm just finishing set up, help yourself, there's food.  The room should be warm enough, but throw that dressing gown on if you want."  He'd looked at John, and there was chemistry radiating between them, a sweetness in the exchange of looks and of proximity.  "Champagne to calm your nerves if you need it. Or even," he shrugged again with a smile, "if you don't."_ _In answer, John had taken the already poured flute, sipped it several times, watching Sherlock work.  He glanced around, feeling more comfortable than he'd expected, and Sherlock's quiet question brought him back to the present.  "So, what's it going to be?"_

_In answer, John had taken another look about the studio.  It was professional, legit, and seemed very above board.  He'd considered the art students who would be coming, that they will notice more if he chooses shyness over nudity, muttered "the hell with it," then dropped the robe and tossed the thong aside too._

_"I'm impressed," is all Sherlock had said, "you have managed to surprise me, which, as you can probably imagine, is not an easy thing."  He set about adjusting lights, setting a few things down, then finally brought out a large, fluffy fleece, arranging it over the couch that is obviously there for John.  "_ _That is for you, then, John."  He'd seemed engaged at the moment only as an artist, a professor with students arriving soon, interested in assuring the flow and process of the sketch session.  "Lay however you want.  Get comfortable."_

_John had said only, "Last class hour is right here?  Right now?" and when Sherlock had nodded, he smiled as he considered that his goal was almost in hand._

_"Provided you don't run from the room," Sherlock had offered._

_"Hardly likely like this, I should say," John had breathed and Sherlock had chuckled just a little._

_The couch was soft and the pillows easily adjusted until John was comfortable.  Sherlock had only made minimal suggestions to keep John's position more sustainable.  He then had stood back, approval and appreciation evident on his face.  "Very nice."  The smile had been more friendly than predatory._ _"Ready?"  John had nodded, and Sherlock had moved to some lighting, plugged a few things in, and bright light shone, eliminating almost all of John's vision past the couch and immediate vicinity.  Sherlock stood there in front of him, a dim, tall outline, and offered him the remnants of the champagne flute he'd taken but not finished all of, and John downed it in a gulp.  The room set up, the lighting, he thinks then, was a very very good thing, not being able to see other students studying him and watching him, paying attention to all parts of him.  Having his vision mostly obscured was a blessing.  The room divider had been opened, the accordion folding doors slid out of the way._

_Showtime._

Now, as he lays in the warm room on a few pillows over a simple dark fleecy fabric, he listens intently for noise in the room, there is the whirr of a climate control fan, and actively he hears only the background music, which is louder than it had been previously.  Unless he is just now paying attention to it.  It is loud enough to block out a lot of background noise as he hears a few things, knows the class must be arriving, the sound of a chair and desk, or so he thinks, perhaps minimal shuffling of feet or papers, and the occasional scrabbling of pencil to sketch pad, in waves or so it seems.  He thinks it was only a few minutes ago, although time is passing funny as he lays there, exposed, on display, no barriers, no words.  The lighting that had been set up, shining on him fully, illuminates every freckle and hair, every muscle and angle.  He can barely see the edges of the actual lighting boom, but is now starting to feel slightly nervous, knowing that many eyes are on him, staring, concentrating, scrutinising.  Wishing he'd clarified what would be best, he tries to keep his eyes open, but for a while they do close, and he finds himself in the slightly foggy haze between wakefulness and dozing.

There is then the sound of the music volume decreasing, single footsteps - Sherlock most likely just based on the clip of the heel and how close the steps are.  Abruptly the lights shining on John are gone, and he can feel his pupils dilate as they protest the sudden loss of stimuli.  Holding still as he can, he blinks a few times as he steadies his breathing, adapting to the change.  The only light in the room is a soft uplight in the far corner, and as he blinks, letting his eyes adjust, John wonders how the students have managed to actually sketch him in a room that was this dark.

He notes then, oddly, as his heart begins to race, that there are no students. The room is empty. The door is not opening, there is no sign that anyone has been there at all.  Had his mind supplied the background noise? Or had there been any at all?  Sherlock returns to the front row of chairs, sits down, and the silence becomes heavy, palpable, oppressive. Wisely, he knows it is John's volley, John's turn, John's response here, so he waits.

Sitting up on the couch, pressing hard on his arm as he shifts positions, John clears his throat.  "Sherlock?"

There is a paper held out in front of him.  It is the TA contract, in duplicate carbon format, and while John watches, Sherlock tilts it, signs it, separates it, keeping the top and setting the second down next to John on the cushion.

"What the hell was this all about?"

"Fulfilling your obligations.  You're done.  You are no longer my student, nor my TA."

"Yes, but ...?"

"I didn't want to share you."

"Then why bother with any of this at all?"

"I did want to watch you.  Watch you accomplish something that made you uncomfortable."  John knows that Sherlock also wanted to toy with him, to set him up, observe his behaviour, his coping.  Like a bloody experiment, which, John thinks, is not particularly nice but the attention, the focus of this man, is pleasant.

"I'm not your lab rat."

"You never were."  There is kindness and affirmation in Sherlock's voice and John finds it soothes his bristliness.

As John's vision sharpens, he can see that there is an easel front and center in the room, with the canvas of course facing away.  A tray of paint, water, brushes, towels, and pencils are haphazardly strewn about on a tray near it.  He stands up, works the kinks out of his legs, and accepts the dressing gown that Sherlock extends, pulls it on but does not wrap it around.  He has been exposed for a while now and it seems unnecessary to cover up fully at this point.  "Can I see that?  Please?"

"It will need some finishing."  Sherlock turns his attention to his work.  "Colour and fill and detail."

"Yes or no?"

"I would prefer to complete it first, but if you insist, you may certainly look."  Sherlock hands John a water bottle, but cautions as John reaches for it, "For drinking not for dumping on the wet media."

"As if."  John wants very much to take a few steps, look to his hearts desire, but sees instead the artist and the pride he wears for his effort.  John recalls that Sherlock had not pressed Tony to see their pictures immediately, respecting his wishes, and he decides to emulate him.  "I'll wait, then, if you would rather."

There is that lopsided smile again, that reaches fully to his eyes.  "Thank you."  John thinks that is the most sincere thing Sherlock has even spoken to him, although his comment _I didn't want to share you_ is still echoing, as well.  "I would like very much to take you to dinner.  I know a great Italian place."

John can do nothing but smile and nod, agreeing.  He has earned his two credits.  It sinks in.   _He has earned his two credits_.  Spontaneously, the grin is unstoppable, and as it seeps through John's entirety, Sherlock meets it, matches it.  The smiles celebrate and revel and John can feel his chest expand at the accomplishment.  "And then?"

"My flat.  Where I will have you."

John's mouth goes dry.  "We can just skip dinner, I find I've not too much of an appetite."  He wants to add, 'and I want you to put out this fire you have started' but finds the words stick.

"Oh no, John.  Anticipation is part of the game, the appeal.  This has been brewing between us for _months_.  And I intend to play fully.  And win.  Both of us.  We have waited this long, and I will have nothing less than finishing well and sweet victory.  An appetizer, foreplay, and perhaps my foot in your lap, a candle on the dinner table between two amazing entrees.  Licking at my wine glass, sucking sauce off your fingertip, perhaps.  Imagining it all, and then savouring you."

John does feel completely naked then, exposed, showing too much.  Self-consciously he wraps the robe tighter, looks up shyly, and wants to speak, to confess.

The smile is warmly adorning Sherlock's face and soft in his eyes, comforting and open and accepting.  "I _know_."

"You know what, exactly?  I haven't said anything yet."

"I already know.  I can tell you haven't been with a man before.  That you are bisexual but inexperienced.  I also know that the closest you've come to using safewords was when you informed my brother of my lack of them."  John can feel his face flame.

"Oh god, your _brother_?"

"He is irrelevant.  And the rest, it's fine.  I'm impressed, actually."

"How do you do that?  How can you tell?"

"I read people.  I look at things, hear what people say.  And don't say."  He lets a warm hand slide down the back of John's arm, holds eye contact for long enough that John, had he been asked, would have done almost anything he asked right then and there.  "It's how I understand you.  How the Met needs me, and helpful in realising why I tick so many people off."

John has many things he wants to say, wants to ask, but the words escape him.

"Get dressed."  Sherlock's hand moves from John's arm, slides around with one fingertip to his nipple, flicks at it, then comes up under John's chin, tips his head up to meet Sherlock's warm lips.  It is, surprisingly for all the heat building and the words that have been crafting and growing, a chaste kiss, one of restraint and consideration and promise.  Just when John wonders if it is ready to change directions and could have quite easily burst into flame, Sherlock pulls back.  There is the slightest tremolo in his voice as he says, "Please.  Have mercy on me and clothe yourself."

++

Angelo greets them with grand familiarity, ushers them to a front window table, and takes great delight in complimenting and fussing over them both.  The service is attentive, and John finds himself distracted as Sherlock licks his lip as Angelo takes their order, and John is preoccupied enough to hope he has ordered something he likes as well as something actually on the menu.  A bottle of wine is opened, and Angelo brings a candle, which makes them both partially repress a smile.  John would be hard pressed to detail much of dinner, but he is not disappointed when Sherlock's stockinged foot ends up in his lap as promised, hidden by the tablecloth.  It is not rudely insistent or obnoxious, but the pressure and the warmth and the reminder is quite apparent.  There is wine, bread, the occasional obvious stare from one or the both of them over the course of the meal watching, as Sherlock had threatened, the lick of a finger or the touch of a tongue to the wine glass.

Angelo comes to the table several times to check on them, and finally, Sherlock moves his foot from John's lap.  Looking up and trying not to be disappointed in the loss of the connection, John grins.  He shifts across the table, and the candle that Angelo had given them before dinner is partially burned away but still flickering, casting flattering, soft, luminous glow into Sherlock's face.   The tide, John thinks, is turning, the evening progressing, dinner nearly over, and the remainder - _where I will have you_ \- still ahead of them.

"Do you want dessert?" Sherlock asks, keeping a benign look about him.

"I was willing to skip _dinner_ , if you'll recall."  The smile stays, genuine, on John's face, and the sparkle of his eye is also reflected in the light of the candle as it flickers, dances, and plays with both of their features across the table.

"Yes, but I didn't want to imply that your opinion earlier means it continues to be the case.  If you'll recall, I was challenged once regarding my definition of consensual activities."

"Right, yes once doesn't mean yes always."

"You ready to leave, then?" Sherlock asks him.

"I can split the cheque with you, I suppose."  It had not yet been brought over, John notices.

"It's always on the house for me.  Helped him out once, so he takes care of me."

"So when you say you're going to take me to dinner..."

"It doesn't mean necessarily that I'm going to _pay_ for your dinner."

"You bring a lot of people here?"  The question springs out, mostly innocently, before John realises what he's asking, not to mention how it sounded.

Sherlock's eye narrows, sharpens.  John can almost picture them fencing, and Sherlock moves in for a very skilled parry and thrust.  "Oh, lots.  Dozens of former students.  Homeless street informants.  Liaisons in the British government.  The occasional slag, you know, for when I'm desperate."  It seems to John that Sherlock is just getting started when he adds, "Criminals when I'm hoping to get a confession.  Terrorists out to blow up London --"

_"Sherlock."_

Looking away as if dealing with a child, Sherlock huffs out a breath, forces an exhale.  He clarifies, perhaps with a correct answer this time.  "My brother, unfortunately, who is in the government, once.  My landlady, once.  And only then because there was an unfortunate incident in my flat that I was trying to atone for.  Acquaintance every now and again, the DI, on the Met from time to time, he and a detective if there's an interesting case developing."  His look is steady.  "Mostly I eat here alone."

"I'm sorry I asked."  John sets his napkin aside, slides his chair back, knows he's on thin ice.  "I was just wondering, mostly, if I'm just another conquest.  If Angelo has had me pegged for someone else you've been after.  Someone else that you'll get bored with."

"Relax.  I have no intention of being bored."  He stands up, catching Angelo's eye, raising a hand in farewell.  "Time to leave.  So I can prove it to you.  Trust me, you won't be bored either."  John rises as well, takes the last sip of his wine as Sherlock smiles knowingly.

There is a short cab ride, a jingle of Sherlock's keys outside his flat, and, as soon as they are through the upper landing doorway into Sherlock's flat, there are coats on the floor, hands and teeth and buttons and zippers and breathing that will not be quieted.  "To the bedroom, John, if you have any intention of not ending up on the floor, or up against the wall, now's the time."

Sherlock's arm gestures wide in the direction of the hallway, and John stays, thinks the wall might be fun someday, given Sherlock's history in the classroom.  He shrugs.  "Make me," he challenges.

"Oh dear lord.  Music to my ears," and Sherlock lets his arm drift away from the hallway and directly to John's nipple instead, and John gasps loud, presses into the touch.  " _Make you_ , indeed."  For a moment, John can almost believe Sherlock is going to drag him down the hallway.  "You do know the way straight to my deepest desires."

There is another meeting of the mouths, too firm and animated to be anything less than Sherlock _devouring_ John, pressing further against his chest, his other hand sliding to John's open flies.  John wonders if combustion is possible, and his knees begin to tremble when Sherlock's hand comes to his shoulder and presses.  Fingers make a slight indent over his collarbone, the strength of hand, arm, and intent pressing hard and insistently toward the floor.  Knowing he risks a mark, perhaps a bruise, John stands his ground, muscles tense and stalwart under Sherlock's grasp.  Sherlock comes closer, face right up in John's shoulder, mouth very close to his ear.  There is the press of a tongue, tasting, of a reminder that Sherlock is taking the lead here.  A low, rumble, a thrill of desire, and the voice finds gravel, finds a direct nerve route from John's ear to his groin.  "On your knees, John."

Sherlock pushes again, the slightest pinch, digs in until John gasps, legs finally submitting.  He finds his knees, willingly but hiding his eagerness.  "God yes," John breathes.

"Hush.  Fill your mouth, then.  No talking," Sherlock directs in a low voice.  Their different positions, Sherlock standing tall, John kneeling before him, still allow for their hands to clasp, and their eyes meet, hold, both conveying a resounding 'yes' and excitement and throbbing, a need to bend and be bent.  "I feel compelled to remind you, if you haven't done this before, to mind your teeth."

In answer, John bares his teeth, teasing, smiling, letting them very faintly press into Sherlock's skin even as he swirls his tongue, eliciting a crisp gasp from Sherlock.  His lips form a seal, his tongue playful, and Sherlock's hand steadies his position, coiled in John's hair.

"God, John.  You're ... my god... " and he breathes out through pursed lips, attempting to rein in his body, draw things out, enjoying John's ministrations for long moments, then pulls out and back quickly, leaving John with a mildly dazed, and disappointed, look, "Not yet.  And not without you."  Sherlock lets his trousers fall, raises an eyebrow at John.   "Follow me.  I want you on your back the first time."  John looks up, and even from the position he's in, he can see Sherlock's restraint and level of desire, the way he's holding himself back, of frustration, sexual tension.  "Possibly the second time as well."

++

John's legs tremble for long minutes after Sherlock has returned from the loo with a warm flannel, and he swats ineffectively at Sherlock's hands as Sherlock wipes off the fluids cooling and drying on his stomach.

"I knew you'd like that," Sherlock says, sounding and looking pleased with himself.

"That is an understatement."  His voice is pitched high, and is still a little shaky, and he clears his throat before continuing.  "So it's an interesting combination, what you did."

"I should ask you to describe it.  To use your words."  He puts a knee on the bed, comfortable in his own skin and beautiful beyond description.  They are relaxed, comfortable, sated.  "Hopefully you could do a bit better than interesting."

"Spoken like an educator.  I'm not writing an essay about what you did with your mouth and your finger.   _Fingers._  Your _long_ fingers."

"My fingers are not all that's long."  The bed dips as Sherlock lowers himself into it next to John.

"I'm not likely to forget."

"Oh," Sherlock turns on him with mock curiousity, "why is that, I wonder?"

Under his breath, John grins and whispers, "Berk."  He reaches out an arm, brushes it against Sherlock's side, feeling ribs, muscles, appreciating the long lines and the way he holds himself, moves.  Posture and human kinesiology.  Briefly, John thinks Sherlock could be ultimate professor and model for that class, but Sherlock interrupts him.

"Careful with that mouth, I'm sure a bit of tongue and you'll still be able to taste yourself."  There is a playful grin and John resists the urge to pull away slightly as Sherlock does actually kiss him, hard, lips and teeth and tongue reminding him of the truth of what he's claimed.  It seems the words in Sherlock's whisper are audible, that John hears, _God, that's hot_ , but Sherlock may or may not have actually spoken them.  "Seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.  You know, complete your education."  Sherlock leans up close on an elbow, draws the duvet over them both.

"I would suggest you be careful as well.  More so than I.  You should recall that, while you completed the form about me as your TA, I haven't filled your evaluation out yet."

"I'm not horribly worried, I must confess.  I'm not sure they're going to ask me back to teach next semester anyway, so you probably needn't bother."  John glances over, concerned just a bit, and Sherlock shrugs as if the matter is mostly inconsequential.  "Not sure I would do it even if they did.  On to other things, more cases and the like, take up some better paying private clients as a consulting detective," he says and seems definitely ready to change the subject.  "Are you staying?"

"I can't, not long, actually.  Have to be at the hospital early tomorrow, rounds on the pre-ops and the like.  And need to stop home, get my things first."  

Sherlock's arm stretches out, the lamp clicks off and the room is plunged into darkness.

"You did hear me, right?" John asks.

In answer, John feels Sherlock's hand pushing, shoving him firmly onto his side, away from Sherlock.  The long, lean form of the man slides up behind him, drawing him closer, shifting himself and fussing with both of their body positions until there is a comfortable fit.  It is familiar, too, somehow, and John wonders at how that can possibly have already happened.  He can feel his body drifting, the stress of the day, the new experiences all melting away and leaving him boneless and not at all interested in getting up yet.

"Right, of course you did.  I'll just set my own alarm."

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter:
> 
> Someone's been withholding information.
> 
> The discovery does not go especially well.


	7. "... And Watch While He Learns to Fly"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title kudos to 1butterfly_grl1
> 
> This chapter, as promised, is for Boton.

Text messages on John's mobile tell an interesting story.

**Didn't even hear you leave this am. It's a complement. Don't usually sleep that soundly. SH**

**You were still smiling when I woke up and snuck out. Yes I was flattered.**

Sometime later that day,

**I took your TA paperwork to university today, all officially turned in. Congrats. SH**

**Thanks, I wasn't too worried. If you teach again, don't nearly electrocute your new TA the day you meet.**

**I had that all under control. SH**

**It was a good class. You should do it again next semester.**

**I haven't decided. SH**

A couple of days after, 

**Sorry, something came up, can't meet you tonight. Out of town a couple days. A locked room double murder!  SH**

**All right. Enjoy your double murder. Or murder-suicide, as it may actually be.**

**Double murder, John. As it was impossible for these deaths to have occurred any other way.  I can send photos if you are still skeptical. SH**

**Thanks but no. No grisly bloody photos. Had a rather bloody OR case today, seen quite enough.**

**I wouldn't turn down photos of that if you have some. SH**

**There are none, of course.  We should really work on your ethical standards?!**

**For science, of course. Justifiable. SH**

**Not in medicine without permission.  My patient did fine, though. Thanks for asking.**

**Never a doubt. Boarding now, hopefully the train will prove not boring. SH**

**Solve me a crime, then, and have fun.**

**Fun, eh? You do understand me. SH**

**But be nice about it.**

A few days later,

**Happy graduation ceremony, Dr. Watson, arriving back to London tomorrow or day next. We will celebrate upon my return?  SH**

**Counting on it. And counting the days, if that's okay to say.**

**Of course. I am too. SH**

John glances through the text messages from the last week, since the last time he'd seen Sherlock.  

A lot has happened for both of them, with Sherlock working on investigating several notorious and high-profile cases, and John quite busy with his final accomplishments - graduation, reception, the honourary speciality party thrown for John and some of his classmates, the celebratory dinner his overseeing physician had invited him to.  It has been an amazing week and he endeavours to finish well.  And while he waits to hear from several of his employment applications, now that he has completely finished the programme, the text from Sherlock that arrives gives him something else to look forward to.  He reads the last text again, can't stop the smile, the anticipation, the emotion that swells.

**Just arrived home. Should be available tonight. Dinner and a drink?  SH**

**I think I can work that in to my very busy social calendar. Name the time and place. I'll be there. And you don't even have to _make me_.**

**Oh god, you should stop that. SH**

**Stop what? (imagine evil laughter here)**

**You have no idea what that does to me. You should rest up. SH**

**Of course. You too. Looking forward to it.**

++ 

John slides into an empty barstool at the pub, checks his mobile to confirm he is in the right place. Sherlock had suggested meeting there, and John is rather looking forward to the whole evening ahead of them, particularly given the teasing and the fact that it had been quite some time since they'd been together.  John is early, decides to nurse a pint and relax before Sherlock arrives. The bar is not too loud but fairly crowded, a large place full of a smattering variety of clientele of all ages and walks.

Someone a few barstools away leans forward, makes an exclamation, and John hears his name and then a familiar face approaches. "Oh hey, Tom!  Holy hell, good to see you." John recognises his advisor, shakes his hand as Tom reaches him.

"Oi Watson!  Doctor officially, now!  Congrats on finishing!"  They both stand, there is a shoulder-clapping sort of hug and John gestures at the empty barstool next to his own, answers John's unspoken question.  "I suppose I can, just for a mo', stopped to watch Southampton get their arses kicked."  Over his head, John can see the football match in full swing.

"Get you a pint?  I'm meeting someone later, but have time if you do?" John asks, raising a finger at the barkeep as Tom nods.

"So," Tom begins as the drinks arrive and is momentarily sidetracked watching a yellow card issued to a Southampton player on the pitch.  "What are your plans? Now that it's official."

"Got a couple feelers out, submitted apps, of course.  I'm hoping for a surgical position at Barts, but waiting to hear.  Of course, they're waiting on diploma, final transcripts and all.  You?  Keeping busy these days?"

"Eh still hanging in my office, where students come to have their futures crushed.  Their plans changed, as I'm sure you remember?"  John does, of course, wonders how common that actually was, and how draining that would be to have to deal with student crises every day.  Tom is still speaking, a bit tongue in cheek, gestures as if reading from a wall sign.  "Advising, where dreams go to die."

"Not always.  Lots of times it's a success, right?  Without needing intervention."

"Oh, of course.  Most are fairly easy, just minor things.  It's the rough ones I remember, though.  Such as the trouble you found yourself in.  Seem to recall you were pretty furious that day."

John well remembers that conversation, where Tom had informed him drastic measures were required in order to actually graduate.  "Worked out for me, in the end.  Got those last, pesky two credits."

"You were the only one, John, that deal worked out for, the flexible schedule.  Had tried a few times before you, tried to set up a few others but no dice.  And of course now, with Holmes' obligation met, he's obviously done."  Tom tips his glass toward John, "First and last.  First and only...."

John stops him before he can go completely off track. "Obligation? What do you mean, _obligation_?"

"The community service requirement."

" _Community service?_  What are you on about?"

"I told you, didn't I?" John shakes his head negatively with absolute certainty, knows he would have remembered that detail.  Tom sets his drink down, spins the glass in a little partial circle on the bar top, and looks over with concern.  "Oi, I thought he would have told you.  I guess I can now that class is over and you're done.  I've stepped in it now anyway," and he gestures helplessly at the half empty glass. "He'd gotten in deep with some misconduct, one of those side jobs he does, maybe for one of those investigators he worked with, or maybe it was a government thing, we weren't told specifics, something about improperly obtained evidence or something.  Anyway, he stood before a magistrate for his mis-doings, apparently had to agree to give back to the community.  Magistrate ordered him to share some of that brilliance he has, the way he figures things out, sees stuff.  So he chose this, teaching at our university, did a couple seminars few months back, make sure he could communicate is all, and had to agree to teach one regular class and invest in one student of that class, to repay his debt to the system."

"Repay his debt."  The words are almost bitter in John's mouth, and he pushes his pint back.

"You all right?"  John nods.  "So this finally came about for you - you were the one he chose.  I thought he would have said something to you.  He wasn't tenured, I think we listed him as Associate Adjunct Interim Faculty or something vague."  John quells his nauseous feeling, recalls wording to that effect at the bottom of an email.

"He never mentioned it to me."  John is quiet, but Tom is staring at his drink and misses the change in John's demeanor.  The deflation, disappointment, betrayal.  "Guess he never saw the need."

Tom is almost grandstanding, waves his arm in a sudden burst of energy.  "Eh, it makes no never-mind anyway.  You're done, all graduated, official, ready to take the world by storm, right John?"  Tentatively, John takes a deep breath, wishing the stress and tightening of his shoulders would give some, relax and let him catch his breath.  He manages to shrug convincingly enough for Tom and presses his hand over his nauseous stomach.  "Hey, don't give it a second thought, it all counted and you're free of all this.  It's over.  What I recall, he hand delivered your evaluation right on time, signed the contract and all, signed off on your TA form."  Nodding with a smile, he continues, "Said your performance was acceptable.  Acceptable from him I believe would be high praise, given the difficult reputation.  Couldn't have been too terrible for you, was it?"

John can't stop the hurt that is gnawing at him.   _Was it terrible?_ He thinks maybe it might have been.   _Was it?_ The class, maybe not so much, but the rest?  The physician mindset for him had always been full disclosure.  Tell the patient everything, empower them to make fully informed decisions.

Tom shoots him a puzzled look, says, "Hey, you know it _doesn't matter_ now, right?"  He stares earnestly at John, brows puzzled at his former student's expression.  "It didn't matter, then, either, really.  Two credits.  Done.  Either way, not too terrible."

John considers the hassle, the electric shock, the confrontations, the awkwardness, the plethora of uncomfortable and uneasy situations he'd found himself in.   _Doesn't matter, indeed, that is apparently too true_.

He considers the emotional, physical and relational connection, and then all the times the topic of Sherlock's professorship came up, all the times he could have been truthful.  Information withheld is a big deal, John thinks, and he recalls Tom's question.  His mind works for the right answer and he knows Tom is not to blame for the deception.  "No," he finally says, slowly, "not too terrible."   _And not at all what I thought it was, either,_ John thinks.

If he thinks about it hard, he can still feel the fleecy blanket he'd sprawled out on, posing for an audience of one.  The photo studio.  Dinner at Angelo's.  The various projects - laying on the kerb with fake blood drying on him.  The night he sat while Sherlock handled his face, the night he taught the class.  The sutures.  He will never eat Italian food without the memories.  His mind supplies details about the wine, the candle, the declarations back at Sherlock's flat.  Earl grey tea.  Being sprawled out on his back, on the classroom floor and later, on Sherlock's bed.  John can even picture the little racquetball that sits on his own nightstand.

Tom grins at him, gives John's arm a little tug, attempting to shake a smile onto John's face, insisting, "Hey, you're _done_.  That's what really matters now," he says trying to build excitement and falling short.  "Dr. Watson," he adds, holding his glass up and expecting John to toast along with him, which he does slowly, going through the motions of joining in, and in short order, both glasses are empty.  The game blares away on the telly, and Tom is smiling; John is not.

Sliding his hand inside his jacket pocket, he reaches for his wallet, suddenly wanting, _needing,_ another drink, something bloody stronger than a pint, for chrissakes.  He is anxious to forget, wants to find some mind-numbing respite.  However, instead of the notes he'd been after, his fingers touch the business card he'd been handed after the final ceremony, at one of the post grad receptions, something he'd just reflexively taken, pocketed.  It is a business card belonging to a recruitment officer for the RAMC.  He recalls vividly the way the recruiters eyes had lit up when John had introduced himself as a surgeon.

Tom's hand touches his arm briefly, taps to get his attention, then, he angles his head over to the street side door that had just opened.  "Funny, John.  We were just talking about him, weren't we?  And there he is in the flesh, that Dr. Holmes.  He is one tall bloke!  Wouldn't have expected to see him here of all places.  Talk about coincidence!  We should definitely go over and say hello, I'm sure he'd remember you..."  Tom stops talking when the barkeep shoots him a puzzled look, and he realises that he's talking to himself.  The barstool that John had occupied is now empty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter - last chapter nearly done and I hope not to be too long in getting it posted. I definitely felt that this one needed to end here despite the fact that it's not leaving them in very good places. So keep reading, chapter eight picks up as expected, where their paths cross again and explanations ensue and there is sweet resolution.
> 
> Oh yes, that's right. Sweet, satisfying resolution.


	8. Ask Me Nicely...?

"Your personal presence is needed there."  Mycroft expects the resistance, is not disappointed.  He knows better than anyone how best to handle his brother, and he has waited long enough.  "You need to personally meet someone, deliver a message."

"I have neither interest nor inclination to help you."

"I'm not asking, I'm telling."

"Find another minion."

"Sherlock."

"No."  Sherlock looks up at Mycroft, who simply stares.  It is the same gaze, the same aloof disregard for Sherlock's disagreeable refusal that both parents, many nannies, several teachers over the years and more recently, Greg Lestrade, had managed to employ with a bit of success.  Irritated and now for some reason bested, Sherlock sighs.  "You will owe me."

"Keeping score, brother?  Take care what battles you engage.  You are still repaying me, if we are going to discuss repayment of favour or obligatory debt collection."

Sherlock can feel the muscles of his jaw clench, the resultant headache pain that is triggered over the top of his head.  "Fine."  He seethes annoyance.  "What is the message exactly?"

Mycroft tries hard, and mostly succeeds, in not letting the Cheshire cat smile appear, for to do so would be akin to tipping his hand, revealing too much, or otherwise setting Sherlock up to figure something out.  "Nothing will be in writing.  You will find this soldier."  Mycroft hands him a sealed envelope; inside is a name, rank, and location.  "The message is crucial, so remember these words exactly:  Melody. Davidson. One. Dyad. Pair. Ten. Oven. Trail."

Bored, Sherlock squints, hesitates, nods, the words not really sinking in, and he purses his lips with disgust.  "Easy.  Fine.  If I cared, I would crack that code and use it against you."  

"Just deliver it.  I have no issue if you can break the cipher."

Pulling a fag from his pocket, he offers Mycroft one, lights up, inhales.  "With any luck, I'll be taken captive or shot at or something else exciting will transpire."  Mycroft turns his own pale eyes to look at him, and he backs down.  "Kidding, of course.  I could never be that lucky again."  A thin stream of smoke comes from his lips, and he can both sense and feel the nicotine rushing through his system, crossing his blood-brain barrier, soothing his tortured mind.  For at least the past six months, for reasons neither of them ever put words to, the brothers had been keenly aware of Sherlock's increasing recklessness, of his carelessness, his actually agreeing to get involved with cases, with the occasional mission with more and more danger.  He fussed, every time, but he agreed, _every time_.  "When exactly?"

Mycroft consults his mobile, clenching his teeth together to prevent the all-knowing smile that would give everything away.  "You leave in the morning."  Crisply, he retrieves the travel documents from his pocket, snaps them against the placket of Sherlock's coat.  "Should be home the day after."

"Let's do lunch, then, on my return."  His syrupy sweet tone borders on hostile.  "I will not stay there a minute longer than absolutely necessary."

Mycroft simply snorts, lets that cover over any other possible reaction.   _We'll just see, brother mine._

++

The nurse arrives, checks his name and tags against the clipboard in her hand.  "Need anything?" she asks, her hand touching his uninjured shoulder.  He is laying on one of the transport cots, having arrived from the transfer center absolutely exhausted, in pain, and been placed in a narrow bed after being assisted from the evac truck.  His legs are still trembling from the effort of walking, even as he tells himself that he should feel grateful he can walk, that there are still two boots, two legs.  From what he has seen, there are wounded soldiers with much less.

"Pain medication.  Had dilaudid before leaving ... " he stops, wanting to make sure he was actually where he thought he was before the staff labeled him as confused.  Disorientation would definitely not support his case if he wants a narcotic for pain.  Which he does.  "I'm hopefully en route to London, my last stop was Budapest."  He thinks.  He hopes.  His mind is muddy.

The last time he slept in a bed that wasn't a temporary medical facility was...  he is not even sure when.  There was a rescue after an ambush, a sniper that took out too many people he knew and there wasn't even anyone to ask about his presumably fallen comrades, his unit, some of his friends' dispositions.  For all he knew, he may have been the only one to survive.  Certainly the few who'd been gunned down in the aid tent were dead, John had seen that with his own eyes, seeing mass trauma and evisceration and haemorrhage.  There had been a surgery to remove the bullet, repair bone fragment, stabilise the fracture.  Since then there had been mostly pain underwritten by pain medication and interspersed with ineffective catnaps, being moved and listening to traumatic nightmares of his fellow injured.  There was a fever a day ago, but no one has checked yet today.  Hopeful there is no wound infection.  He turns to look for drainage on his shoulder dressing, either sees or imagines a shadow, but can tell the area is swollen, tender, and he feels the impending heat churning within him, still.  His mind is definitely, and with good reason, likely to remain muddy.

"Dilaudid's for the open abdomen and chest wounds now.  Oxycodone for you, soldier."

His captain's bars are long packed away, and the staff has no idea he's a surgeon yet.  Or, he thinks, he _was_ a surgeon, and he has no way of knowing whether he will heal well with residual function or sensation deficit; right now, he is inflamed, numb, tingly.  Trying not to quantify the pain in his shoulder and arm, which was an eight, he knows it's going to be a very long night.  Oxycodone is barely going to take the edge off.  As he finally drifts somewhere between the pain, the exhaustion, and the fear that his career is at the very best uncertain, he remembers back to a time when his biggest worries were trying to anticipate the questions fired at him from his overseeing physician before surgery and trying to stay one step ahead of Sherlock.  Too bad, he thinks now, that he didn't stay one step ahead of the bullet.

"Pain number?  Zero to ten, ten being the ..."

"Eight," John interrupts, and a corpsman arrives holding a pillow and blanket.  John tries not to groan, knowing he will sleep very little in this open ward on a small cot, in all this activity, suffering, and overcrowding.  Funny that even in the commotion and crowding, he feels very lonely.

++

The mild narcotic gives him odd dreams, ones of rugby and Sherlock turning out the lights and grabbing him from behind, of performing surgery and falling to the kerb with his head split open.  The dream ends with a fall over a waterfall, and he cries out in sheer terror as he lands, twitches, his wound angry at being disturbed and viciously throbbing.  The landing, even the dream landing, knocks the wind out of him and when he moans, crying out in shock just before awakening, a nurse arrives with a small torch to soothe him, reassure him he's safe, and tell him he's got a few hours until additional pain medication is due.  God, a few _hours_.  The nightmare was vivid enough that he can viscerally feel the blood dripping down his forehead where Sherlock had once decorated him, and he reached up with his free arm to feel a bead of perspiration.  Not blood, _sweat_.  His IV has long been removed, and so he flags down a corpsman, requests water, knowing if he's got an infection brewing, fluids are mandatory.

A shower, tomorrow, he hopes, although he knows it is almost impossible with his wound and the volume of people probably ahead of him in line.  But, _god a shower_ \- heaven, bliss, nirvana, it truly would be the best thing since that last weekend of R &R.  He'll be grateful, he knows, for whatever washing the staff has time to help him with.

The post op ward is typically a busy place, with soldiers recovering and crying out and being moved, needing aid or comfort or help with personal care, so the presence of people walking about all hours is expected and definitely not a foreign event.  Sometimes there are privacy curtains placed between beds; more often no one pays too much attention to anyone else in a place like this.  John watches some of the doctors looking for patients, some of the company clerks delivering phone messages, and even soldiers being served with discharge papers as they wait for whatever destination awaits them.  If they've been here long enough, they may get mail, even.  It is after a dose of oxycodone late at night, when his eyes are having trouble focusing, that he sees a stranger walk through, purposeful strides denoting he is clearly on a mission, looking for someone.  The name he speaks to the nurse is a name he recognises as a soldier from his unit, and John is positive that the man being sought hadn't survived the attack.  They move on to the adjoining room where some of the logs are kept, and John flags down one of the techs working the ward.

"The man he's looking for died," John says, quietly, knowing that, while death is all around them, he doesn't need to broadcast that too widely.  "In case you wanted to tell him."

"I will."  There is a brush of compassionate fingers over the edge of John's dressing.  It's got a shadow of drainage but hasn't seeped all the way through yet.  "We'll change that first thing in the morning, doc.  Need anything, blanket?  Water?"

"I would take both, if it's not a hassle, and no rush," he says, "and oxy when it's due again."  In four bloody hours, John thinks.

The blanket is delivered, and the water, and John tries to settle on his back best he can, waiting for sleep or morning or a dressing change to break up the terrible nothingness of waiting.

Sleep is elusive, and John tries to shift restlessly to get away from the monotony of pain even as he becomes aware of the presence of someone else in the ward, someone close.  Behind closed eyelids, he is vaguely aware that the steps have ceased at his cot and not yet moved on.

Opening an eye, he pulls the blanket up, and in a voice roughened sleepy tone asks, "Can I help you?"

The name of the soldier is spoken again, the one from John's unit, and that is all.  "Information."

"And you are?"  John pegs the man as a civilian, even in the dim light of the ward, and is protective by nature.

"Messenger.  Though apparently sent on a fool's errand, seeing as how the idiot apparently got in the way of a bullet."  The voice, the tone, the words draw John up short, catching his breath.  "As did you, apparently."  The man hears John's reaction, hisses in frustration.  "Surely the truth doesn't hurt as much as your actual wound?"  John stares a long moment, and the door across the ward opens, and light comes in from the adjoining room, illuminates the profile, the height, the _cheekbones_.

"Jesus fucking Christ," John whispers, recognising the tone and the snarkiness and putting that together with the man's height and steps.  " _Seriously? Here?_   You of all people."  The curls are even visible in the pale, barely shining light, John sees, and his gut churns.  He wonders if the nausea is from the pain pill earlier or the proximity of the person who'd motivated a rather drastic career decision.  "What the _bloody hell_ are you doing here, and why are you looking for a dead soldier?"

Even with the narcotics, John has a momentary advantage, because he is in the know and the visitor is not, and he makes a snort of something between you're wasting my time and you're an idiot.  

The torch hits John square in the eye, and he turns his head away, pulls the blanket up as a shield.  A hand reaches to John's chest, lifts his dog tags out from under the sheet, sliding them out from under the edge of the arm immobiliser, grabs and pulls the tag to the light, checking the name, reads it aloud.  "Watson, John H."  The light is back, painful and annoying in his eyes.  Sherlock takes a knee by John's cot when from across the room there comes a cautionary shushing sound from one of the medics.  To John he whispers, "What the buggering fuck?"

John waits a moment then pushes his neck down into the thinly padded cot, enough to slide his dog tags away, wrenching the chain and tag from Sherlock's perusal, it hits his sternum with a quiet metallic thud, and John tucks them back under the blankets, hisses, "Get the damn light out of my face before I shove it up your arse."  His voice is lethally quiet, audible hopefully only to the man now crouching next to his bed.  "Are you here paying off more community service debt, I suppose?"  There is a long, long, long, drawn out pause as John's words are heard, understood, and sink in.

_"John."_

"No," he says quietly.  "I really have very little interest in speaking with you."

"Please."

"I'll call out for the nurse.  They don't take kindly to civilians messing with their patients.  It will only end badly for you, I guarantee it."

"I'll be back tomorrow," Sherlock whispers, and John can see his profile in the dim light, sees him swallow hard.  He almost feels bad for the man, who obviously had lots of things he wanted to say, to respond, to explain, to justify and excuse himself.  He _almost_ feels bad, but not quite.

John nods once, turns his head away, blinking a few times and hopes Sherlock does not notice the faintest increase of moisture in his eyes.   _Damn, I thought I was beyond this._   Seeking a mental distraction, he wriggles very gingerly the fingers of his dominant, strapped-in arm, feeling the surging and burning up his arm and into the wound, deep in inflamed tissues.  He tells himself the eye wetness is pain and stress and being injured and trying to heal in a cramped post operative transfer center that is entirely too full and unrestful and apparently open to bloody strangers who wander in wreaking havoc on people unable to get away from them.  He is vaguely aware in his peripheral vision that Sherlock stands still a moment longer then slinks quietly away.

++

Sleep is even more elusive than previous nights, and John barely falls asleep before morning rounds begin, which do not bode well, as they are both rushed and eventful.  A few beds down from John, he hears the team rather urgently discussing who needs to be moved, discharged, or relocated.  Apparently they are expecting another influx of injured soldiers later that day.

Two nurses and the doc finally approach John, a few others stagger along behind, and the doc says hello briefly, pulls on gloves to listen to his chest, assess for signs of latent trauma, remove his dressing.  While John wants to look at the wound immediately, he focuses instead on the face of the doc and can read all he needs to in the tightness of his eyes, the faint thinning of his mouth.  Not good.  John glances down at it, sees drainage and catches a faint whiff of what a wound infection smells like up close.  In his mind, he imagines his white blood cells, neutrophils and bands drawing swords, doing battle with bacteria, losing the skirmish, the flames of sepsis and bacteraemia are his war ground.  There is queasiness and John tries to settle his breathing, stay focused on his recovery plan.

"What antibiotic is he on?"

"Flucloxacillin."  The nurse has John's clip in hand.  "Orally, this is day five, after two days IV at the field hospital.  Cultured day after surgery."  John is surprised at that, remembering very little of that time other than pain, no sleep, a blood transfusion, and being unable to think well.

"Fever?"

While the nurse pauses, flipping from one book to the other, John takes another inhale toward the wound and knows he makes a face of disgust.  He answers for the nurse, "38.5 a few hours ago."

"No sense in another culture yet.  And blood pressure's acceptable."  There is a unit clerk, too, on the team, and the doc addresses her next.  "He goes anyway."  There is nodding and John knows he is being ousted from a bed that he actually still needs, for someone who needs it more than he does.  The doc smiles, "Force fluids today, Captain.  Best of everything from here on.  They'll get you a place, keep an eye on you.  Be safe."

The medical staff moves on, and a tech arrives to clean the wound.  John ends up wanting to watch but the pain forces his eyes shut and his teeth grind together as the tech scrubs as gently as he can with chlorhexidine, applies a clean dressing in silence.  Behind the tech is a nurse with another pain pill and paracetamol.  "Little early, but who gives a shit right now, eh?"  John swallows, his arms shaking and shivering for a few moments, feeling every degree of the fever.  "It'll help.  Sorry for the bum's rush, but we're going to try to help you find a downstream place.  Hospital if we can, but they're tight."  The nurse summons the unit clerk back.  "London, right Dr. Watson?  See if you can find him military housing."  The clerk is already shaking her head no.  "Full, unfortunately.  Family, then?"  John wonders if his alcoholic sister is even still in the city, shakes his head slightly.  "We can try for some housing near one of the bases, maybe the infirmary there can ..."

"That won't be necessary."

The nurse and clerk turn abruptly, to look at the speaker, and are surprised to see a civilian standing behind them.  Sherlock, of course.  He clears his throat.  "I will make arrangements for Dr. Watson.  Whatever he needs."

"No."

"He can stay with me."  Sherlock addresses the nurse with the words, but is looking right at John.  "Please."

The nurse can see, sense, and feel John bristle.  "John?"

"May we have a moment?"  John knows he may not have much choice if he doesn't want to end up in unsafe group housing with a rampant wound infection and in need of help with his care for a while.  "It's okay, though, I guess.  Have to go somewhere, don't I?"  John takes a hesitant glance at Sherlock.  "Not really any other choice."

"How soon until he's cleared?"

The clerk checks one of the many logs in front of her, looks between them, speaks the things in his way of discharge.  "Prescriptions, wound instructions, today's antibiotic dose, Captain, if you didn't already get it.  Your belongings are here on base somewhere, we'll track them down.  Discharge papers just need the CO's signature."  She looks up, shrugs at John.  "Should be soon.  Couple of hours."

Sherlock looks skeptical that John is well enough to travel, but nods.  "There's no way he's going by train.  I'll arrange a car."  There is texting and John's mouth begins to water, not in a pleasant way at all.  The nausea that has been simmering just under the surface bubbles up into something more, and the nurse barely gets a basin to John in time for him to be sick.

Negotiations are going to have to wait.

++

The car idles just outside of the post op ward, and John has signed his name in entirely too many places and insists on walking on his own steam out the door until he takes one and a half steps and his muscles won't hold him up.  The wheelchair angles by the door allow him to mostly just slither into the back of the waiting car.  He is crooked, sideways, across the oversized back seat and doesn't care at all.  A few bags, his gear, and his paperwork are placed at his feet.  A nurse comes to the door, "Bye, Dr. Watson.  Get better now."

He is too spent to correct her use of his title.  "Thanks," is the only whisper he can manage from behind half-mast eyes.

She leans in one more time, puts a clean, empty basin into his hands, and then disappears.  For all he knows, the still warm bed is already stripped, wiped, and another soldier is on his way to it.  He still doesn't care, and closes his eyes.

The hum of the car, the background noises, the sounds of the tyres on the streets, the blanket that ends up over him (and if he were cognisant, he would wonder that Sherlock requested it), the lull of the relative comfort of the seat cushions, and John's exhaustion all make for a relatively uneventful trip that John spends mostly asleep and Sherlock spends on his mobile to avoid staring at John.

++

John is very confused when he opens his eyes next.  There is sweet, smooth, soft linens.  A softly supportive pillow of memory foam - which triggers a fleeting thought that someone has pronounced him dead and he is in a casket.  His shoulder hurts, though, which is oddly comforting that he is still very much alive.

The room is unrecognisable, what he can see of it past the duvet.  He blinks a few times, and it is the scent that triggers his recollection of where he is.  Sherlock's bed.

"Oh good, you're awake and have finally reoriented yourself."

John edges up on an elbow to see that he is sitting across from the end of the bed, but then the discomfort begins so he gives up for the moment, eases gingerly back down.

"Loo, food, or pain pill?"

"Yes, and in that order."  His voice is underused, and underpowered.  

There is a minimum of fuss, only a rare exchange of words, and in short order John is returned to the bed.  "Thanks for this," John says once there is toast and paracetamol down his throat.  "I'll find a place as soon as ..."

"Stop.  You're staying here."

"I can't."

"Look.  I know I screwed up, that you don't trust me."

"With good reason."

"Yes.  But for now, please just get better, rest.  There'll be time for talking later."

++

The next few days are disjointed for John, sleeping in between brief awakenings.  There are vague awarenesses of an appointment with a health visitor to check the wound and leave supplies, a tall somewhat familiar looking stranger carrying an umbrella who came only, it seems, to stare at him, Sherlock's landlady who brings tea and a comforting hand on his forehead.  He has humbling memories of being stripped, helped into the bathtub, and washed.  He recalls being too weak to get back to bed without a nap on the bathroom floor first, and swallowing toast, paracetamol, antibiotic, and his pride.  There are snippets of dressing changes and the long fingers that trembled the first few times doing it to become more confident and competent, as the wound goes from foul, oozy red and draining to a less wet, healing pink colour.  He is fairly certain the first few nights that Sherlock may have kipped on the floor of the bedroom.

They both realise John is feeling better when Sherlock hands him his antibiotic pill, a bottle of water, and then glares at him until he takes the one and finishes the other, and John glares back at him.  "You're a bloody nag."

"You're welcome, _love_ ," Sherlock says with a decidedly pasted-on, fake grin.

"Maybe the couch for a while?  I need to do something more than sleep here for twelve hour stretches."  It is only a few minutes, John moving mostly independently, and he is in the sitting room, breathing as if he's just climbed a mountain, heart pounding, exhausted again.  "Great, time for another nap."

"Well, if you were after beauty sleep, it hasn't helped yet."  He nods at the screen, "I'm putting on something boring to assist you falling back to sleep."

"Piss off."  John slides his arm out of the immobiliser once he's settled in front of the telly, stretches it out carefully, feeling the burn and tearing sensations still there, slides it back where it is supposed to stay.  Sherlock helps adjust the strap once it is properly aligned, and John sighs.  "I should be hearing from a physiotherapist soon.  And hopefully getting a pension check too.  And then I can replace my mobile, contact my sister, look for a ..."

"John, please.  Are you up for this now, really?  Because I'm not in a rush.  And there's no reason for you to feel like you have to move out until you're cleared by the doctor."  He snorts just a moment.  "For all we know, you'll be cleared completely and called back to active duty."

John doesn't even answer that, as he knows his injury has definitely ended his _military_ career at a minimum.  "All right.  Maybe some real clothes, then."  John nods at his duffel, where his gear had been stashed after he'd shipped out, and it had followed him to the field hospital, the transfer center, and had remained there in Sherlock's sitting room since he'd come to Baker Street.  

Sherlock slides it over.  "Your gun in there?"

"Fairly certain they don't let you keep stuff like that."

"Too bad."  John leans over, winces when the angle hurts his shoulder position.  "Here, I'll unpack it, hand it up so you can reach it."  And he pulls out a few sets of fatigues, socks, slippers, just the basic essentials, a few books, razor, his own personal medical supply bag - and when Sherlock sees that is the same kit John had used when suturing him, their eyes meet.  

Sherlock pulls out the last few items, the final thing John's RAMC coffee mug, and at that John sighs audibly, heartfelt to the point that Sherlock is almost jealous of it, and says, "God, my favourite item.  Glad it survived."  The mug had seen him through a brutal, lightspeed orientation, trial by fire in the OR, gaining experience, skill, proficiency.  He had watched complications, saying sentimental goodbyes, saying hellos only to have tragedy strike.  It was all, however, with the constancy of a cup of tea, often lukewarm, but _always_ in this very mug.

His voice trails off as Sherlock reaches for something inside the mug that has been rattling, and they are both somber when Sherlock's long fingers come out of the mug holding a camo bandanna wrapped around a small black racquetball.  "You kept this?"  The bandanna flutters to the floor, a forgotten casualty, and John stares at the ball, at Sherlock's inscrutable expression, at the position of Sherlock's hand - graceful and poised.

John realises that the time for _talking later_ has just been moved up.  The time is now.  "Yes."

Sherlock's bright blue, intense eyes are staring right back at John and he smiles, looking a bit more pleased about the presence of the ball than John would have thought, and says quietly, kindly, "Why, John?  Why did you keep it?"

_Why, indeed._

++

He watches John open his mouth a couple of times only to close his lips again, unable and perhaps unwilling to say anything just yet.  Only a few minutes elapse, uncomfortable and awkward for John, who finally gives up, says, "I don't know."

Sherlock is still smiling entirely too much, looking more pleased than he has a right to, and John gets mildly concerned when Sherlock makes a 'stay' gesture with his palm, gets up to pull a portfolio from the shelf, where it had been just casually sitting, no markings.  "Perhaps this will help."

He chooses a seat on the couch right next to John, opens the binder so they can both see it, flips to the first page, waits.  "Oh my god," John breathes.  It is the pencil sketch of him from the classroom the night Sherlock strong-armed him into taking off his shirt so Sherlock could draw his face only.  The eyes, the warmness of the way Sherlock had captured his expression that night, are still bright.  "Why did you keep this?" John asks.

Without a verbal answer, Sherlock flips the page.  John notices then that the pages are under plastic, protective covers.  The next page is John's masterpiece spleen, that he'd drawn while lying on his back in the classroom that night.  He can't stop the smile and idly brushes him thumb over where he had signed his name, mostly illegibly, and he chuckles to himself that his signature has only gotten worse since then.

John considers all the reasons why Sherlock may have kept those items, including that he was an artist and unlikely to sacrifice his own work, but his holding onto John's splenic rendition was something else entirely.  He recalls so many months ago, when he was packing those few personal items he was permitted to take with him before he deployed, that he hadn't even hesitated when holding the ball.  He wanted it close to him, so it had gone into his duffel without a second consideration.  "So," John begins, "we may have had our own reasons for keeping these, but I guess whatever they were, they aren't over yet, are they?"  He wishes that had been clearer, tries again, "It's not done between us, this connection."

Sherlock is nodding, apparently agreeing and understanding.  "We are not finished."  His words are quiet and gentle.  He holds out his open hand toward John.  "Give me your mug.  I'll wash it, and make you some tea."  Their eyes meet, hold, lock.  There is a soft and almost tender moment as, without breaking eye contact, he places his treasured possession in Sherlock's waiting hand.

"Long as it's Earl Grey.  I seem to favour it these days."

++

The question has been rattling around in John's mind a few hours, demanding to be asked, and John gathers his courage and his wits, pads out to the sitting room to find his (temporary) flatmate.  "Sherlock?"  He has a notebook open, along with his mobile, and is making an odd face of frustration.  When he turns to look at John, John quickly plunges ahead before losing his nerve.  "Can I ask you something important?"   _Out with it, Watson_ , he nudges himself when Sherlock looks back at him, expectantly.  "Whatever happened to the painting you'd started, that day, when it was just you and I?"

"So before I answer that, and I swear to you I will, but first, can I ask you about that soldier I came looking for?  That day when I found you instead."

"Of course."  He thinks idly that Sherlock may have destroyed it, the painting, not wanting any memories of that day or of him.  

The thought derails as Sherlock says something unexpected.  "He was a lay chaplain, wasn't he?"

"He was.  Our unofficial unit chaplain.  How did you know that?"

"I was sent by my brother to deliver a message to him.  Mycroft, other than being a pain in the arse, tends to run in circles where information is exchanged using clandestine means and he finds himself terribly clever."

"Not that clever.  That man died right next to me, never had a chance."

"I'm sorry."  Sherlock takes note of John's questioning response.  "That he died."

John forces his mind back to the conversation.  "What was the message?  Is that what you're working on?"

"The code was a religious reference."

"So Mycroft didn't know he'd been a casualty that day?"

"Of course he did, don't be an idiot."  John's brow rises in displeasure, and Sherlock plunges ahead uncaring.  "It wasn't him that I was supposed to find, it was you."  Realisation strikes then, and Sherlock gets quieter.  "It was a set-up."

John hesitates before choosing to speak his mind, snorts a breath of something like sympathy, then delivers a sentence fraught with emotion: "Non-disclosure's a bitch."

"Yeah, about that..."

"You could have told me.  I could have handled it."

"You're right.  I should have told you."  There is an uncharacteristic solemnity, and he stares at the floor mostly, glancing up to make sure John is watching, paying attention.  "I thought about it, but then so much time had passed, and...  I am sorry."

"I know.  I just can't...  I'm going to need..."  He takes a deep breath, gestures helplessly to the air as if frustrated.  Both of them look away momentarily, and John tries to salvage their prior conversation.  "So Mycroft..."  John thinks that apparently his confrontation with Mycroft at the hospital that day was about more than John besting him out of a few notes.  It clearly all revolved around Sherlock.  "So the message was irrelevant, just supposed to somehow lead you to me?"

Sherlock reads from the paper in front of him.  "Melody Davidson One Dyad Pair Ten Oven Trail."  Sherlock opens his mobile, hits a few buttons, starts to read.  "Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth - for your love is more delightful than wine.  My lover spoke and said to me, 'Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me.'  Song of Solomon 1:2 and 2:10."  When John is still looking puzzled, he continues, "Melody refers to song, Davidson converts to David's son, who in the Old Testament is Solomon.  Then the chapter and verse..."  He points to his mobile.

"Oven Trail.  So the final two words refer to Baker Street."  John smiles just a bit, thinking of these two crazy brothers, the games they play, and mutters something about imagining the Christmas dinners being a thing of ultimate terror and that they should be greatly feared.  And avoided.

"Exactly.  And perceptive.  I take back calling you an idiot."  Sherlock looks nervous again, and glances at John.  A few minutes pass, but John is patient.  "So your question, John.  The painting is no longer here."  

"All right, I guess I kind of expected that you wouldn't keep it.  I kind of wish I had looked at it, then, that night."

"When you're up for a quick excursion, I'll show you where I put it."

++

The cab drops them at the front door of a smaller art gallery uptown, a stately, tall building that is rather large and seems well cared for.  A hastily written sign on the front door says _"CLOSED TODAY UNEXPECTEDLY.  SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.  WILL REOPEN THIS AFTERNOON"_ and John stops, thinking they will turn back around, get in the cab, and return home.  But Sherlock knocks once, and a curator lets them in, nods at Sherlock then stares a moment at John, but keeps silent as Sherlock grabs John's arm, ostensibly to keep him from tripping up the final step into the main lobby, then emphatically taps his foot on the tiled floor.  The man then disappears, keys jingling.  The building is old, and while John has never been in it before, he has certainly heard of it - an up and coming set up, where there is a display area and, according to the sign, studios for lease and storage and larger rooms for sessions or classes.  John makes an assumption that Sherlock has stored the painting here, unfinished.  Out of sight, out of mind, or something like that.

John expects that they will head down a side hallway toward the rental section of the building but waits for Sherlock to lead.  The studio smells of paint, and art, and history.  It is well-cared for and seems to cater to artists of quality and skill, judging by the calibre of the displays.  Sherlock takes his uninjured arm, and somberly says, "This way."

John sees artist names, hours, showings, and some promotional signage and adverts for tickets or private showings.  While Sherlock walks a bit ahead of him, John takes in the obvious success stories of the associations and connections that are rampantly displayed as they pass by.  The lobby leads through a small door across a path and opens into a very large display room, where John can see sculptures, paintings, hangings, tapestries, and drawings of various media type.  Once they are in the main room, Sherlock's steps slow, and he makes a partial turn to John while he acclimates to the acoustics and layout of the oversized chamber.  John glances around, adjusting the arm immobiliser that he is mostly sick of wearing, and turns to ask Sherlock why they are here when he sees it.

Or more correctly, sees himself.

Hanging on the wall in the prime location, under optimal lighting, away from other pieces or works, is Sherlock's artwork.  The painting, which is much larger than John remembers, is completely finished and framed.  John stares.  The tanned man on the couch is comfortable, confident, relaxed, and smiling fondly as if he holds an exciting secret.  The light catches his blond hair and the dark brown fabric of the couch almost fades into the background and his skin seems to have taken on a glow in contrast.  The muscles of his arms are well defined, and John thinks that they are actually now, after the rigorous conditions of Afghanistan, even with these few weeks of less activity, pronounced even more, well-toned.  His unscarred shoulders are angled, tapering to a lean waist, and there is a sheet wrapped about his hips, allowing both legs visible from mid thigh and down.  John has no idea how long he stares, but it can't be too long, and he turns to Sherlock, who is watching him very closely.

Johns throat feels thick, and he squeezes Sherlock's arm just briefly, quiet, unwilling to break the peace, the anticipation of his reaction.  He takes a few steps to read the small descriptor tag by the piece.  It reads:

 

_S. Holmes_

_Oil paint, 2010_

_"Pose for Me"_

 

John's giggle breaks the library-esque silence in the gallery, and Sherlock's eyes widen.  As John tries to stifle the laugh, it only gets funnier to him, and he takes a deep breath, perches gingerly on one of the central benches across from his portrait while he regains control.

"What the hell is so funny?"

"You titled your piece just exactly like you talk.  You're giving an order.  That is so you."  John checks whether Sherlock is smiling or not - he isn't.  "For god's sake, you have to admit it's funny as hell!"

"That is not what I had expected your first, or even your tenth, comment to be."

"All right, then," John says, still with a small smile about him, linking his arm over the velcro straps as his only means to cross his arms and looking again at the portrait.  "I suppose my first reaction is that your talent is amazing.  That is ...   No, actually, that's not even it.  Truthfully, the first thing I noticed is that you painted me covered up.  I distinctly remember there was no sheet over me in that studio that day."

Sherlock gazes at the painting a moment, as if appraising it anew with a critical eye.  "Would you rather have been naked on this gallery wall, really and truly?"  The lopsided smile is back, and he seems less nervous, having heard only positive things from his live, in-the-flesh subject next to him.  "You surprise me.  Again."

"Of course not, not really.  But it's quite unexpected.  I thought nudity was much more the norm in the name of art.  So the question is, why?"

"I should think that obvious, even for your little brain.  I said it to you that day, and it's still true.  I didn't want to share you."

There is a bit of a squeeze in the pit of John's stomach, a response to Sherlock's honest confession.  "Has it been here long?  I mean, I'm not going to be recognised out on the street or anything?"

"The curator did."

"Explains the rush inside."

"Been hanging since I finished it, so long enough, and I have no idea if anyone else outside will identify you.  If you are, be flattered, because the clientele here I would think is rather discerning and has good taste.  And they paid either admission or membership fees."  Sherlock joins John on the bench, both of them still a little wound up, and they both stare up at the likeness of John for a few moments, both of them remembering the live creation of the pose.  "I asked them to close the gallery for a couple of hours this morning," he begins, stops to clear his throat, continues.  "I thought it might be weird if people recognised you, while we were here."  John wonders if Sherlock had to pay the owner for lost revenue, but is grateful for the privacy.  "And," Sherlock says, "I wasn't sure if you were going to like it."

"Good thinking.  I would have hated to squeal or something equally humiliating in front of a crowd.  Or have someone point at me or stare."  They share a smile, and then John glances around, looks at Sherlock then, sees his remaining uncertainty.  "You did nice work, considering your life model, by the way.  Well done.  Thank you for bringing me here."

"You're welcome."  John thinks Sherlock still looks nervous, and glances back at his likeness on the wall.  His face is definitely warm and inviting, there on the couch, and he vividly recalls his surprise when he discovered he was there alone with Sherlock, and how much longing and yearning had grown by the end of the night, after dinner at Angelo's, when they'd finally, _finally_ arrived at Sherlock's flat.  It seems like ages ago.

John lets his hand stray to Sherlock's thigh, and as he'd been looking away, notices that Sherlock startles and his head snaps back around quickly to look at him.  "Would it be forward of me, if I wanted to ..." and he leans just a little bit closer, lets his eyes drop to Sherlock's lip.

"Forward?" Sherlock repeats, his voice just a bit higher pitched than usual.  "I've been trying so hard not to rush you, to give you space."

"Then I'm going to be forward.  Kiss me here, hard.  And then call us a cab.  Because I can't wait any longer, and I want ..."

There is a hoarseness to Sherlock's voice, once they break apart from a breath-stealing kiss, and he says, "I paid the cab to wait.  I am nothing if not optimistic."

++

The cab ride is silent.  The flat is exactly the same as when they'd left it with the exception of now John's coat is hung up while Sherlock's has been tossed hastily over a chair.  The bedroom is dimly lit, comfortable, and warm.

John issues a small growl through slightly clenched teeth as he lays on his back.  "Jesus, Sherlock, I swear if you ask me one more time if I'm all right, or if you're hurting me..."  He lets the threat unfinished, reaches up a hand to pull Sherlock's naked body down against him again.  "I'm fine.  I'm not shy, and I'll tell you if there's something you need to know."

Sherlock leans up on an elbow as he looks down at the now very small, white gauze dressing over John's left shoulder.  He no longer sleeps in the immobiliser, and for the moment, he has taken it off and his arm is resting comfortably by his side so Sherlock knows that certain ways of moving it is still uncomfortable.  "All right."  There is a grin, and Sherlock lowers his mouth to John's sensitive nipple, licking and then blowing on it, finding the way it puckers and tightens intriguing.  "So this is ok, and this, and this?" and with each question, he finds something else to nibble on - waist, iliac crest, the thin line of hair that trails down from his naval.

"Oh, most definitely," he says, low, with appreciation.  "Such an advantage, really, that your hands are so big."

"It is," Sherlock agrees, "considering what can fit so well in my hand," and he slides back to kiss John, nuzzle at his jaw even as his hand wraps around them both.  John slips a hand down low to appreciate the lumbar-lordotic curve of Sherlock's back and then grasp a rounded but lean buttock, enjoying the tightening and flex of the muscle as they both rock slightly.  The room becomes warmer, a sheen of sweat develops on them both, and there are moans and a guttural 'god yes' from one and a 'fuck, Sherlock' from the other, and then sweet, sweet, shuddering release.  The satisfaction is evident in every raggedy breath that John draws, and in each touch of Sherlock's along John's ribs, his shoulder, his hair, as their breathing eases and the heart rates return to normal.

++

"Hey," John says the following morning as he gets dressed for yet another physical therapy appointment, "did you ever end up seeing all those pictures we had taken, by the photographer, was that Tony or something?"

"Of course I did."

"Pick any up, or I guess probably not."

"You might say I picked up one or two."

The half-arsed smirk on his face, and the faint blush creeping up his neck, is very telling.  "You bought the whole damn album, didn't you?"

"Kind of.  Most of them anyway."  He swallows hard, looks at John as if considering his options.  "I guess I'll tell you, in the interest of full disclosure, that I picked out the three pictures for that frame that Tony mentioned," and he waits and John nods, remembering the trifold that was supposed to be included with the sitting, "I have that, too."

"I'm sorry I left that all for you to deal with."

"I understand, I guess."

"So can I see it?"

"You're sure?"  And when John looks at him questioningly, Sherlock flicks at glance at John's shoulder.  "I mean, I just don't want it to bother you, with your injury, seeing your shoulder, comparing how it was then, with how things are now."  His words are gentle, and John gives his shoulder a bit of a flex, understanding what Sherlock is telling him, that it might be maybe a little hard to look at, and he well remembers Sherlock's stated desire to see his bare chest, his pose.  "I think you're in a good place, but, well...  You don't have to."

"It is what it is.  I can't change it.  Might be nice," John says, maybe feeling a bit more nostalgic than he would have expected, "to remember what my shoulder used to look like."

"I'll get it.  I had Mrs. Hudson put it away before you got here, when we came home from the transfer center, the hospital."

"You probably could have hit me over the head with it, then, and I wouldn't be able to remember it."

"You were pretty out of it that day."

He returns with a large frame, unfolds it, sets it down on the table, draws a chair close to John, and then opens it with a deep breath that he attempts to mask.  The trifold of photos is almost unspeakable - the two on the edges large and colourful.  In the left one, Sherlock is serious, hands in hair, head tipped back.  The unbuttoned shirt is just downright sexy, and John is stirred simply looking at it.  His expression is just shy of playful, mostly just smiling, and there is somehow a sparkling in both eyes that makes him almost seem alive in the two dimensional image.  The photo on the right, of John, shows him simply grinning, but it is a mischievous grin, blue eyes deep and vibrant, with his youth and strength somehow captured and calling.  His chest is bare.  His unblemished shoulder, both of them actually, muscled and toned, rugged even on the paper.  They are, John realises, an attractive match - light and dark, stocky and lean, solid and trim, blond and brunette.  He looks again at his own chest, at the pose that Sherlock had requested.  Looking at it then, John can almost feel the first stirrings of arousal, the memorable swish of Sherlock's steady, capable, _talented_ hands brushing over his nipple, warm, flicking.  

He considers the centre pose as the glue that holds the separates together, combines the two parts to make a whole.  The couple pictured together, however, is what almost takes John's breath away, makes him almost feel the need to look away, sensing the rightness and sense of belonging right there.  It is an easy embrace, both of them looking at the camera, the sensual expressions on their faces, of the liveliness of their eyes, the glimmer and easyness of a couple comfortable with each other.  The embrace is relaxed, and as John continues to take in the nuances of their picture, he feels Sherlock's arms come around him, warm, satisfying, intimate.

++

"How was therapy today?"  John has been going for weeks now, exercising and being evaluated by the professionals, comes home almost always sore, but sometimes with hopeful news, other times discouraged.  It depends, and Sherlock is anxious to hear what kind of news today's session included.  He is standing by an open window, and there is the smell of something other than cigarette smoke in the flat.

John hangs up his coat, turns back to see if there has been a fire extinguisher discharge, or missing draperies that have been inadvertently incinerated, something else awry.  "Problem?"

"Little ash investigating.  Got a little out of hand for a moment."

"Didn't lose your eyebrows again, so that's progress I guess."

"So, therapy?" Sherlock prompts again.

John is glad, again, that he had listened to the therapist from early days and on, not embraced the hope that Sherlock had for full and complete recovery.  It makes it easier to say, quietly and finally, "I've been discharged."

Sherlock rises, doesn't realise immediately what John is saying. He grins, begins to approach but then sees and ascertains John's demeanor, and his step falters. "I take it that's not good news, then, for some reason?"

"Well, I suppose in some ways, it'll be nice not having to go there twice weekly."  But as he speaks, he holds out his left arm, the weaker one, and it does not stay straight out, drifts down a little despite John's best efforts.  But then while Sherlock is watching, he rotates his hand, and the tremor is there, no better, still rather pronounced.  "This is as good as it's going to get.  I've been cleared for general practice, but surgery is out of the question."

"Isn't there something more that can be done?  Surgery for you, again, perhaps?"  While he doesn't wish that on him, he wants to help problem solve, to fix it.  "Release the nerve impingement?"

"Doubtful, actually.  Bit of scar tissue already." John shrugs, tries to come across more casual than he feels. "It's all right, really."

"Oh John, I'm sorry."

"Thanks, but, well, I guess I'm good with it, I've been expecting this. And I'm much more fortunate than a lot of the guys from my unit that day."  Long ago, Sherlock had located a list of casualties from the attack that injured John, and it was a staggering, devastating list.  John viewed it once, tossed it into the fireplace, watched it be immolated. 

"So general practice it is."  Sherlock nods.  "I can see it, you liking that."

If nothing else, John can still sometimes be impressed when Sherlock tries to be encouraging and not simply speak his mind bluntly.  "It's not the thrill of surgery," John admits, "but yeah.  I can give it a try."  He tossed a business card down on the little sofa table.  "Already have a lead on a nice practice couple blocks out.  Interview tomorrow."  Sherlock's face carefully searches John's, and he continues to stare at him until John smiles.  "It's annoying that you can just tell, by the way.  Yes, I'm interested and hopeful, but it's only part time.  Which suits me fine, because I think there's something else I got exposed to that I think might prove more satisfying."

John decides that Sherlock can't stare the answer out of him, so he sets about making tea for them both, then settles into his easy chair, picks up the newspaper.  And does not wait long for Sherlock to escalate, to have his innate curiousity get the best of him.  He speaks up with a moderately frustrated question, "So?  What is the something else?"

"You can ask me nicely, I think."

"I can ask nicely if I can pinch your nipples too, but I generally don't."  He is fully engaged now, very focused on John, and John finds it thrilling and heady.  "I don't usually ask, I mean.  The pinching is kind of spontaneous."

"I'd say yes to that, by the way."

"You'd say yes and you'd like it, too."

"You do have a way about your fingers.  And other things," he teases, and resists the urge to arch his back as his mind is already planning ahead for when Sherlock is pinching, perhaps biting, his more sensitive areas.

There is a slight raise of one of Sherlock's eyebrows, and his voice lowers.  "How about a nice pounding up against the wall?  Or over the back of the couch?"  Sherlock grins.  "Yes to that as well?"

"Depends on if you ask nicely."  John gives him a bland expression, or attempts to, and fails.  He reaches down a palm to adjust himself under his zip.  "Or not."  The tea is a nice distraction, John thinks, sipping twice, drawing out the length of time before he will just blurt it out.

_"John."_

"All right."  He folds the paper slowly, sets it aside, and with a small smile says, "Yes, to both of those things, too, of course.  But you already know that."

"Out with it," the gravelly low commanding voice is back, and Sherlock only pulls that out again because he knows John adores it, and can see that it is nearly _undoing_ him.  And it's a win for Sherlock as well, making John a bit weak in the knees and rather likely to cooperate.

"I think I'd like to teach."

"Absolutely not."  He is teasing, and John does not take the piss.

"What?"  He teases back himself, pretending to not understand.  "Because you're afraid of my being better at it than you?"

"No.  Because you aren't."  He grins, begins to unbutton his shirt.  "Because I've seen you shirtless in front of a classroom, and I've seen how devastating you can be."

"What exactly do you think I'm qualified to teach?"  The wriggling of Sherlock's eyebrows and the leer that follows gives John a moment to clarify, "Basic med school classes - preliminary surgery basics in the classroom."  John chuckles, adds, "I dare say I'll be keeping all my clothes on during those lectures."

"I was thinking I may have to audit all of your classes, actually, keep you safe from randy students.  I had a student once..."  John watches hungrily as Sherlock's pale eyes watch him while his fingers work his own buttons quickly, spread the shirt wide, untuck it, and slide down his own ribcage in a smooth motion.  John's eyes follow the near-caress, as expected.

"Yeah, I had a prof once who was pretty fit, too."  John watches as Sherlock's mouth prepares to cover his own, their lips seeking, hot, then demanding and serious and unstoppable.  Sherlock's hand grabs at John's waistband, his belt, tugs them sharply close together as they share a grin, bodies close and yearning to be closer.  "Turned out we were good together.  Still are."

"Oh, god, John."  There are too many clothes and too much distance.  John works his own zipper while Sherlock shrugs out of the remnants of his shirt.  "On your back, then.  Now."  John plants his feet, becomes something of a wall as Sherlock puts quite a bit of effort into kissing John into a sexual frenzy, his hand pressing over John's zip as John doesn't immediately respond.  John edges back from him, challenge clear in his expression.  "Oh, god, you're going to make me, aren't you."

"Damn straight I am," he answers cheekily, and Sherlock leans it to kiss again, and John returns the kiss but does not go further than that, his hands withdrawing just a bit in position and intention.  There are smiles exchanged, a few moments of a standoff, and John lets his fingers return, drift from Sherlock's lean waist, lower, seeking and finding, wrapping his fingers firmly around him, sliding.  "I know you can do it."

"Do you really want me to ask you nicely?"  Sherlock's voice tingles and shivers and settles in the center of John's chest, travels low.  "I rather think you don't."

"God no."  His breathy plea is quiet, audible, a confession.

"Then this is me not asking nicely, _and_ giving you a choice because it's up to you."  Sherlock leans in, his mouth close to John's ear, and John can feel Sherlock's breath hot against his neck.  Long fingers slide from John's waist to pinch his nipple, a faint squeeze becoming harder, firmer, the grasp becoming hard enough to John to inhale quickly.  "You like that."  The growl of his voice vibrates between them, and John is glad Sherlock has a hand touching him as he can feel his leg muscles trembling with desire.  "Choose now: up against the wall, or over the chair."  John can't stop the moan that starts in the center of his chest, and suddenly patience evaporates, blows away like a mist.  "I will have you."

"Both."

Sherlock is many things, John has learned, including rather obliging when he chooses.

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading along. I wasn't expecting the _feels_ to demand attention at the end, there, but ... well, the characters insisted.
> 
> Please let me know nicely if something slipped by me that shouldn't have. Unbetaed not Brit picked, all mistakes are unintentional and my own!  
> _____
> 
> Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth - for your love is more delightful than wine. Song of Solomon 1:2
> 
> My lover spoke and said to me, "Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come with me." Song of Solomon 2:10


End file.
